


Cracking the Dating Code

by KannaOphelia



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: All The Tropes, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Romance Novel, And Crowley doesn't stand a chance, Awkward Flirting, Aziraphale Hates Australia, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Flirting (Good Omens), Crowley is a flirting guru, Eventual Smut, Fake Dating, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Gay Disaster Crowley (Good Omens), Guess where this is set?, Happy Ending, Harlequin Mills & Boons fusion, Human AU, Includes recipes because why not, It's the battle of the flirts really, Kissing Lessons, Love at First Sight, M/M, Or doesn't it count if they aren't trying to fool anyone but themselves?, Rated for eventual sexual content, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Slow Burn Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sun lotion application, Thirsty Crowley (Good Omens), Unconventional Courtship 2020, Weaponised eye-batting, romance novel tropes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25764787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: Secluded on his private desert island in Australia, Crowley finds himself with an unexpected guest on his hands, eager to take advantage of Crowley's famous credentials as a dating coach.Pity that Crowley is a) a fraud and b) utterly infatuated.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 405
Kudos: 283
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs, Unconventional Courtship





	1. In an endless summer, we can find our way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PeturbingPrism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeturbingPrism/gifts).



> Written for Unconventional Courtship 2020, and based on the summary to Harlequin romance [Cracking the Dating Code](https://www.harlequin.com/shop/books/9781459244702_cracking-the-dating-code.html) by Kylly Hunter. So my prompt is:
> 
> "Aziraphale West, genius and legendary code-cracker, needs a hideaway. His borrowed desert island seems perfect—until he discovers the owner is the most dangerously sexy man he has ever laid eyes on… Now he’s out of his depth!
> 
> Anthony Crowley never intended to teach Aziraphale all the delightful, enticing mysteries of flirtation. Aziraphale needs a nice man, not a rogue. A patient man, not one who can’t be controlled. But Aziraphale's clueless attempts at cracking the dating code bring out the rescuer in him, the teacher in him, even the gentleman in him. For a while.
> 
> Until Aziraphale’s skills start to exceed his own…"
> 
> As far as I can gather, the hero of that novel is a sexy Australian alpha man who spear fishes sharks in his spare time, while the heroine is a waiflike and inexperienced young British hacking genius. Absolutely no difference between them and Crowley and Aziraphale that I can see, so I'm sure this will go well.
> 
> Many thanks to dear Ale for the beta, and any mistakes remaining are things I added in afterwards.
> 
> Dedicated to the lovely and talented Peturbing Prism, for being the first to teach me to love human AUs with their [utterly amazing lawyer AU,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20752415/chapters/49309895) and for just being a wonderful person. <3 <3 <3

# Cracking the Dating Code

### Australia

Anthony J. Crowley opened his eyes and looked into the soft, hazel-blue, golden-lashed eyes of an angel, framed by a halo of light shining through platinum curls. Interesting vision to wake to, and unlikely. He was pretty sure he hadn't got religion in his sleep. Equally unlikely to be a human. No one had visited his island for weeks. Months. Something. Certainly, no one had looked as kindly as him like that for longer than mere months.

Pity. A gentle face went with the eyes, a worried expression crinkling the forehead. The dream angel looked nice. Crowley didn't know many nice people who thought he was worth looking at with such kindness, especially in the last few years. Would be nice if this man was real, not a dream brought on by an intoxicated nap under a beach tent.

He smiled up at the vision above him, murmured, "You're pretty," rolled face down in the hammock and went back to sleep in the warm shade. Hopefully to dream of angels.

The sun was higher when he woke and turned over again, and the eyes were less kind. "Are we fully awake yet?" Perfect crisp BBC enunciation that immediately got on Crowley's nerves, no matter how sexy it was, especially when paired with a note of petulant irritation.

Crowley blinked. "You seem to be awake. Not sure about me." He started to roll back over, but a hand curled around his upper arm, preventing him from escape.

"None of that, now. It's time for you to sober up. I've been sitting here, hot and thirsty, in this diabolical heatwave--"

"It's barely 35 degrees." He refused to open his eyes.

"This _diabolical heatwave_ , staring at your ridiculous back tattoo and waiting for you to wake up, and I think it's time for you to be a proper host."

"Yeah, nah. I'm not your host," Crowley mumbled. "Goin' back to sleep. Host yourself."

"Right."

The hammock swung wildly, Crowley felt the pressure of arms under his bare knees and armpits, as he was pulled against a broad chest. He struggled wildly for a moment, but he was being carried down the beach and his senses were still blurred by sleep and headache and it was demeaning, it was humiliating, it was a bit frightening, it was oddly hot, and there was no way he was putting up with it.

He twisted frenetically. For a moment he thought he had regained control, but then he realised he was being dumped on his arse in the ocean.

"You bastard!" The water wasn't cold, but it was a clear shock to his system. Crowley scrabbled at the shoulders of the man dropping him, and they crashed into the waves together.

Crowley scrambled to his feet in the knee-deep water, straightening his sunglasses, which had miraculously not floated away. His assailant also made his way to his feet, and Crowley looked into the same eyes from his dream, greenish now, and anxious-looking. The halo of hair was a platinum blonde shock of nearly white curls, and the middle-aged face was soft, Crowley had got that right, soft jawline and neck, a cotton shirt rendered almost transparent by seawater and clinging to a softly rounded chest.

The stranger looked altogether too angelic to have just yanked him out of his cosy hammock and dumped him in the sea.

He seemed to be having thoughts in that direction himself, because his lower lip wobbled slightly. "I have no idea what came over me, Anthony, I'm most terribly--" A wave bowled the soft man right off his feet, and he disappeared under the water.

Crowley, more used to the waves on the island, kept his feet. He even dived for the other man and solicitously helped him up and away from the danger zone of breakers. The man's arms felt pleasant under his arms, firm and giving, no sign of the immense strength it would take to carry even a string bean like himself down the beach. Or maybe it was just that Crowley hadn't touched another human being, let alone an attractive man, for far too long.

He let go before it could become too weird.

The other man extended his hand. "My dear fellow, please accept my apologies."

Crowley started to stick out his own hand, then stared stupidly at it. "I'm wet."

"Yes." Those blue eyes twinkled ruefully, like the sun off little wavelets. "Sorry. So am I."

"My fault," Crowley conceded generously and gripped his hand. It was wet and gritty with sand and it felt like it had been made to fit in his own. He shook and squeezed it and then wondered if he was holding it too long, so hastily dropped it. His new friend looked confused. Maybe he hadn't shaken his hand for long enough after all. He made another peace offering. "Come inside, have a shower and have morning tea. Or coffee. I baked some biscuits."

Crowley started to march up the beach, and was aware of his... guest? following in his tracks. Staring, no doubt, at his _ridiculous_ back tattoo. Of course, it was ridiculous, to be completely fair. A red-bellied black snake writhing down his spine, jaws open wide and forked tongue out as if it was going to lick down between his buttocks. At eighteen and newly out of the closet, it had seemed hilariously apposite and cool as hell. Thirty years later, he tended to keep his shirt on around other people. But surely he could go shirtless on his own bloody island, without some Pom turning up and disapproving of it.

Crowley provocatively swayed his hips even more than usual, aware he was wearing nothing more than black board shorts that must be _really_ clinging by now, and about two inches of sand stuck to his wet feet and calves. He hoped it pissed the stranger off, even if the stranger did have nice eyes and a nice chest and was strong enough to literally sweep a man, albeit a skinny one, off his feet. He probably wasn't even gay, just English. Hard to tell sometimes.

He paused at the verandah to rinse the sand off his feet at the outdoor shower and then turned to see his companion standing helplessly. The man had hitched up his beautifully pressed linen trousers as much as he could, but the hems were brown with a rim of sand, his feet crusted even thicker, his shirt -- he was wearing a proper buttoned shirt, in summer, on a holiday island, in Australia -- still sopping. His curls were damp and his equally damp trousers clung around broad, heavy thighs, making their shape clear.

Crowley was _not_ going to lick his lips.

He prepared to say something offensive about tracking sand in the house instead, when the man fixed his gaze on him. His appealing gaze. His golden-lashed, melting, pleading gaze. Holy _fuck._ Crowley was vaguely aware that he was standing on his own verandah with some plump old Pom his own age who had turned up out of nowhere and thrown him in the ocean. If he was asked to fly to the moon and pluck a rock from the surface while this man was looking at him with that expression, he would start building a rocket.

"Are those your suitcases, by the jetty?" Crowley gestured vaguely beachwards, where a pile of luggage sat on the edge of the jetty. There was no boat. Someone must have dropped the man and his gear off.

His new acquaintance nodded, his eyes even more liquid. Grey, now, it seemed. Oh, fuck, Crowley was gone. "You've got dry clothes in them, yeah? I'll go get them. Rinse off under the shower, there's a towel there."

The man nodded, and Crowley trooped back, under the stinging sun, and tried to drag back a pair of very expensive looking and very heavy suitcases. What the hell did the stranger keep in them? He huffed and puffed, pulling them, aware he looked like an idiot and was probably burning like a lobster to boot, out from shelter with no shirt on and no hat and long expired sun lotion. Some sexy view he would present.

That thought made him glance quickly and guiltily over his shoulder, but the stranger was already primly wrapped in a towelling beach robe from the peg by the shower. Good thing Crowley liked his robes big enough to snuggle into, he supposed, although the man was exerting a certain amount of effort holding it closed around him. It would be wicked to wish for him to let go just to cop a look. And pathetic. What was Crowley, a twelve-year-old with a sudden violent crush?

He almost decided he actually was a kid with a crush when the man _dimpled_ at him and came to help, wearing thongs1. Crowley's thongs. Crowley's beach robe. And nothing else. Fuck.

"My hero," the man said, hoisting one of the suitcases with embarrassing ease. The bathrobe fell slightly open over his chest, displaying damp white hair, and Crowley had a glimpse of a thigh that was just as soft, furred and gorgeous as he had imagined. _Fuck._ He tried not to swear aloud, and made a strangled sound instead.

"Let's get you up to one of the guest rooms and we can both get changed. Then I'll make a cuppa. Tea or coffee?"

" _Tea_ ," the man said, lifting his eyes to the heavens as if praying, and Crowley grinned. He could have guessed.

He dragged what he was sure was the lighter of the suitcases inside, when something struck him. He turned to the other man, swinging his suitcase as if it was nothing.

"Who the hell are you and what are you doing on my island?"

* * *

Half an hour later, the espresso machine was hissing on the breakfast bar, fresh tea was brewing, and Crowley was still cursing his younger sister Dagon's name. She would have thought it _hilarious_ to saddle him without warning with a prissy English librarian for a month. Probably cackling over how much embarrassment she had caused this poor man when he turned up unexpectedly at the grumpiest sibling's getaway. Probably hoping they would make each other's lives hell before the poor slob departed on the next water taxi.

Not that Aziraphale West was a slob. Crowley cast a sideways look under his glasses at his guest, seated at the table in the open plan family room. Aziraphale, quaint as his name, was almost impossibly buttoned-up, like some kind of caricature of a librarian, almost as if he was compensating for how much skin he had flashed earlier. He was wearing a bow tie, for heaven's sake. In December. He was probably going to die of heatstroke and then all Crowley would have to worry about was disposing of the body.

Maybe he should turn the air conditioning up. Like a good reluctant host.

"I don't understand why a librarian would wbe ant to work on an island. I don't have many books here. Or people." He grabbed a tin of biscuits and deposited them on the black marble table with a couple of side plates.

Aziraphale sighed. "Not that kind of librarian. A _data_ librarian with a speciality in information management. I have a library degree, but it's more useful to the layman to think of it as coding. I wasn't getting anywhere with developing the code I was contracted to write working in your family's offices, and my house is undergoing repairs, so Dagon kindly suggested I stay here and keep her brother company. Beautiful surroundings, she said. It doesn't really matter where I work. As long as I can do it somewhere with a decent internet connection... _What_? Why are you grinning like that?"

"A decent internet connection. My _dear_ fellow." Crowley mocked his accent.

"What?"

"This isn't Sydney, let alone London."

"I know that." Aziraphale sighed. "A weak connection will cause some frustrations, but I'm sure it will suffice."

"A _weak_ connection. If only."

"What do you mean?"

Aziraphale looked so alarmed that Crowley almost felt sorry to break his illusions. "No internet."

"I suppose I could up my data connection and hotspot my phone," Aziraphale said, lifting his chin bravely.

Oh, the poor lamb. Crowley felt like an executioner during the Terror. "Want to check your phone and see how many bars it's got?"

"Oh, _my_ ," Aziraphale said. His eyes asked pitifully, _What kind of nightmare country is this?_

"When I say I moved here to get away from it all, I really meant it. Looks like you're on holiday until the next water taxi brings my supplies in a week."

"No landline?" Aziraphale looked as if he was going to faint.

"There's a sat phone, but it doesn't always work. Look. Relax. Sleep. Enjoy yourself. Make friends with the snakes and spiders. Bee won't fire you for a week off due to one of Dagon's stupid practical jokes, or I'll settle them. I might be in disgrace, but I still own enough of the company."

"The _what_ and the _what_?"

Crowley grinned. "I'll introduce you to my little friends later. Look, have you done anything, in particular, to piss my baby sister off? Ex-boyfriend?" He tried not to hold his breath in anticipation at the reply. If Dagon had got her painted claws into this innocent looking angel... Aziraphale didn't seem like her type, but then, no one really knew what Dagon's type was. Breathing, probably, but apart from that, there seemed no consistency in who caught her constantly roving eye.

Aziraphale shook his head bewildered. "No. We always got along very well. She has the most _fascinating_ electronic filing system I've ever seen. But nothing like that."

"Rooted one of her boyfriends, then? Or her girlfriends?"

"Nothing of the kind." Aziraphale was crisp, his accent even more BBC announcer than usual.

"You must have done something to annoy her, to saddle you with me. Or maybe just sheer directionless malice, I suppose I shouldn't neglect that possibility."

"I don't think so. It's lovely here." Aziraphale looked out the plated glass windows, down to where the sea was impossibly blue under a cloudless sky, grey lavender bushes and yellowed grass leading to yellower sand, and then up again to where the hills were cloaked mistily with gum trees.

"Place is all right. The company's shit." Crowley drained the tea leaves and handed the cup to Aziraphale, sitting down with his triple ristresso.

"I don't agree. You make a lovely cup of tea. I was expecting tea bags, possibly with some hideous added flavour." Aziraphale shuddered delicately.

"Nah, I like the finer things in life." Crowley hesitated. "Look, I think Dagon is hoping we'll rip each other to shreds. She'd think it's funny. We'll disappoint her, yeah? No sense wasting energy getting in each other's way."

"Certainly. We wouldn't want to start out by dumping each other in the ocean, or anything." The man giggled. Positively giggled. And wriggled, as if he was a child who had done something naughty but was trusting he wouldn't get in trouble. It was the most adorable thing Crowley had ever witnessed. He stared a moment, then barked with laughter. It was that or kiss Aziraphale, which would probably be a bit precipitate under the circumstances.

"I make a lovely biscuit, too. Go on, or my feelings will be hurt." Crowley took off the lid and pushed it towards him, trying not to look casual and not too eager. He was in self-imposed exile, but he did miss watching people enjoy his food.

Aziraphale reached in and took out a round biscuit, yellow with butter and filled with white icing, almost as tall as it was wide. Crowley felt a stab of pride. His bikkies had come out really, really well. He had tasted one as soon as they were cool enough to ice, and it had crumbled in his mouth just right, rich and sugary. Aziraphale looked at it as if admiring the dainty ridges on top where Crowley had pressed the flat of his fork, and then took a bite and chewed slowly, his eyes fluttering shut as if to focus entirely on the biscuit, as a dreamy expression floated over his face.

Fucking hell. Crowley liked seeing people enjoy his food, but he'd never liked it quite as much as this. He'd certainly never felt heat surge over himself over someone biting into something he'd made. But then, he'd never seen anyone enjoy it quite as much as Aziraphale seemed to be enjoying that biscuit. There was a delicate colour on his creamy cheeks, oh God, Aziraphale was _blushing_. And so was he.

Aziraphale savoured every little bite, then delicately wiped a golden crumb off his lips. "That was _scrumptious_."

"Yeah. Yeah, right." Crowley swallowed. "Thanks."

"Was that a melting moment?"

Yes, yes it certainly had been-- oh. That was what he'd meant. "Nah. Yo-yos. Difference is, melting moments are made with cornflour 2, yo-yos are made with custard powder. Makes 'em extra rich. Want more? Have more. Have lots more."

Aziraphale looked longingly at them, absently touching his rounded belly. "Oh, I shouldn't."

"Oh you should, you should," Crowley said fervently, pushing the tin toward him.

"But you haven't had any."

Crowley grabbed one and shoved it in his mouth. It took a bit of stretching, but he managed. "See?" he said around the crumbs.

Aziraphale stared at him with a kind of hypnotised fascination. "I do see." He reached out and took another biscuit, and then as Crowley chased the yo-yo down with coffee, bit daintily into it with his perfect teeth.

They finished the tin together. When Crowley baked biscuits, they usually lasted him a week, but he found himself pushing them over to Aziraphale over and over, bolting down a few himself to encourage him. When they were gone, Aziraphale said, smiling slightly, "What are you in the mood for now?" and Crowley, coward that he was, fled to the dishwasher with their dishes before he could suggest moving to the couch, preferably with himself on Aziraphale's lap and his tongue down in Aziraphale's mouth, seeing if he tasted like yo-yos and tea.

Crowley's cheeks were flaming and he felt absurdly like they had just had it off at the table, although if they had, he presumably wouldn't still be so achingly hard. Fucking hell, he was getting off on watching a guest eat. That wasn't just embarrassing, that was lower than low. Surely he hadn't fallen so low. Even he had standards.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder.

"Shi-- oh. Aziraphale. Sorry. Used to being alone here."

"I'm sorry. I was just curious whether Dagon was telling me the truth about you, or if she was just--"

"Making up shit to cause trouble. Yeah. She does that." Crowley turned, at last, hoping he had things back under control in the jeans department enough to turn around. Why were all his jeans so tight and his t-shirts so short and clingy, anyway? Peacocking. On an empty island. He was that far gone. "Dagon loves tormenting people almost as much as she loves inventing paperwork. Born for HR, my sister."

"So you mean you weren't a flirting guru?" There was visible disappointment there. Crowley panicked.

"Well, depends what you mean by guru. I had a column, wrote a couple of books, did a radio show advising lonely hearts on how to chat people up and do some hooking up. _Serpent of Eden_. Just caused trouble, really."

"Oh. Good." Aziraphale looked at him, all golden innocence and gentle beaming. "Because I was hoping you could give me some lessons."

****

"You, A.J. Crowley, are an idiot."

Crowley's reflection scowled back at him, obviously resenting the imprecation. It was fair enough, though. There were so many things he could have said to Aziraphale. He could have said he didn't do consulting. He could have taken offence at the idea he would do his former job for free. He could have admitted that he set up his advice column and media presence on a joke, having cribbed advice from every stupid self-help book and Pick Up Artist Guide he could find, and found that people took him seriously, wrote glowing letters of thanks, and gave him money. Until he crashed and burned and went into exile, of course.

He could have admitted his last "relationship" was acting as a beard for one of Bee's closeted girlfriends, and he hadn't had a date since a disastrous Grindr meetup five years ago. His match had hooked up with Crowley's little brother Eric _and_ his big brother Ligur instead. No. No, he wasn't going to admit to that. Not when Aziraphale had fixed admiring eyes on him like he was some kind of love god. Crowley's horde of evil siblings were far away from his island where they couldn't torment him and destroy his life. Dagon _had_ sent him Aziraphale, but Crowley refused to see that as a torment. Even if their acquaintanceship had started with him being dumped in the ocean and now he was snarling at his own reflection.

The last thing Crowley wanted was for Aziraphale to realise that Anthony J. Crowley, dating expert, alone of his extended family of half-sibs and steps, was practically wet behind the ears when it came to sex and romance. Even Hastur had more success in his love life. It was astounding how many women responded positively when he invited them to come home and pet his frog.

What Crowley _had_ said was: "Why would someone like _you_ want dating advice?"

Aziraphale turned adorably pink, especially the tip of his nose. Crowley had the mad impulse to flick it with his forefinger. "I know I'm getting on. That's why it feels like now or never, before it's too late. I'm nearly fifty, you know."

"That's not too late at all!" snapped Crowley, who was further past forty than he cared to remember. "Unless you want kids, I s'pose. Do you? Want kids?" He glared at Aziraphale with what was probably too much intensity, given that the man blinked and folded his hands protectively over his belly.

"I think most people assume that I'm not looking for the kind of relationship that would easily result in children. Besides, they tend to get underfoot when you're not paying attention. And they're sticky."

It was Crowley's turn to blink, as a wave of relief flooded over him. "Oh, good. Me too. I mean, you can't trust kids, they're little buggers. Look all cute and innocent, and next thing you know, you find out you're bringing up the Antichrist. No kids."

"Quite. Well, it's embarassing." Aziraphale fidgeted, his gaze sliding away. "I feel the need for a partner, but I am quite socially awkward and shy. You might have noticed."

"Yeah nah, you started our friendship by picking me up and bridal-carrying me in your arms to the sea. What's your idea of being outgoing?"

"Oh dear. I knew that was the wrong thing to do. I've been worrying about it ever since. I can be quite reckless at times, I'm afraid."

"What, do you sometimes catalogue a philosophy book under psychology?" Crowley quirked an eyebrow above his sunglasses.

"Classify, not catalogue. They're both in the 100s range, in any case. Besides, as I told you, it's more useful to think of what I do as coding."

"Holy terror, you. I'm not sure you could actually do anything really bad. So you're not looking for notches on your belt, you're looking for a serious boyfriend, and you want to know how to make a pass?"

"More that I want to know how to show interest. And provoke interest in turn." _You could carry them in your arms and then eat biscuits at them, job done,_ Crowley thought, but did not say. He certainly didn't say, _You want a serious boyfriend? Pick me. Hell, we could skip the dating stage, my bedroom's upstairs, let's work on that bridal-carry._ He'd been mostly alone for a year or so, but surely he wasn't _that_ thirsty. Besides, the kind of man who wore a bowtie in summer in Australia and asked for serious dating advice probably didn't want to be dragged upstairs by his boss's brother after a cup of tea and some yo-yos. He would avoid Crowley for the rest of his visit, and Crowley was aware that he didn't want that. Besides, no one in their right mind would want to get mixed up with Crowley's family. He might have had a chance with Aziraphale before Aziraphale encountered Dagon and Bee. At least he hadn't met Hastur yet. "I know I need all the help I can get."

"Arrmrh, mmrgh, mmmmh," said Crowley noncomittally.

Aziraphale raised his brows slightly, and his eyes opened wider, that pleading gaze again. "So you'll help me?"

 _No,_ Crowley said in his head. _There's no way I'm going to pretend to know anything about flirting and take the chance to sit close to some pommy librarian, gaze into his eyes, compliment him to make him blush, hold his hand, slow dance..._ "Yeah, yeah, a'right. S'pose I could help out."

Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back and positively beamed. Lit up like a sunbeam, in fact. Crowley wondered if he should turn the air-conditioning up a bit. He was certainly sweating. He turned to put away the sugar, and Aziraphale drew his breath in.

"What?" Crowley folded his arms defensively.

"Nothing at all. I certainly wouldn't suggest this island was provisioned by a ten-year-old." The two of them stared at the shelves of packaged biscuits, chocolate, lollies, spreads, bars and sweetened cereals.

"I have a weakness for sweet things, all right?" Crowley tried to lower his voice meaningfully and wink, forgetting he was wearing his sunglasses. In any case, as a flirting lesson, it failed. Aziraphale was still staring at the shelves with his lips pursed disapprovingly, just as if he hadn't tucked away seven biscuits with a cup of tea. Prissy bastard. Crowley slammed the cupboard shut. "Dagon neglected to inform me that you were expecting a health spa. As well as that you were coming at all. Next time, I'll be sure to put in an order for more organic salad."

Aziraphale gave him such a poisonous look that Crowley's lips turned up despite himself. "Look, be good, and I'll do you onions with the barbeque for lunch. And tomato sauce. That's made of vegetables, right?"

"Fruit," said Aziraphale, so primly that Crowley grinned despite himself. He couldn't be the only one to find the odd professor look and attitude so appealing. Get this man confident enough to flirt, and he'd be fighting them off. Lucky fuck knuckles.

The grin stayed until they took cold cans of drink into the balcony and dropped into deck chairs. "It is rather hot," Aziraphale sighed, and loosened his bow tie, undoing the top two buttons. Then he undid his cuff and rolled his arms up, showing two perfect forearms with gold hair spangled on them.

"Excuse me," Crowley said politely, went to the upstairs bathroom, and had a panic attack at the mirror.

1 Known outside Australia as flip flops. Aziraphale has not crammed himself into Crowley's sexy undies, sorry to disappoint. ↩

2 Note for Americans and other aliens, Crowley means a highly processed, low protein/low gluten fine wheat flour, not cornmeal. ↩


	2. Please forgive me if I'm coming on too strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You practise on me, and I turn my best seduction routine on you. We'll make a competition of it, all right? Best flirter takes all."
> 
> "But surely you realise you have an unfair advantage," Aziraphale said. He flickered his gaze from Crowley's face to his tight t-shirt, and down along his tight jeans, lingering on his thighs and calves, and back again. It must have taken less than a second to do the once-over, but by the time he reached Crowley's face again, that face was probably smoking. "You must be aware of your natural advantages."
> 
> "Urk. Yeah. Nah. I think you hold all the cards, mate," Crowley managed to say. He wasn't sure how he was going to survive the next week.

When Crowley came down again, cool and collected and swinging his hips like the unselfconscious alpha sex god he was, Aziraphale had moved his seat into the sun, and had his phone out, scrutinising it instead of the sea. Pity, really. The sea was doing its best, throwing out glittering sparkles of silver light under a cloudless sky.

"Any luck?"

Aziraphale sighed. "None. But at least I had some books downloaded. Only a couple, though," he added a little anxiously.

"How many do you need for a week, Azza?"

" _Azza._ " Aziraphale winced and smacked his lips together, as if getting rid of a particularly nasty taste. "No, I don't think so."

Crowley tipped his head to one side. "Az? No? Can't expect me to keep saying something that long. Need something for short. A.W.?"

"A.W. is exactly the same number of syllables and not nearly as easy to say," Aziraphale said, a little testily. Perhaps he was self-conscious about his name. Perhaps he would prefer some disgustingly upper-crust British nickname like Bowser or Bumpy. Crowley decided to drop it for the moment.

"Could be confusing anyway. I'm A.J. sometimes. A.J. and A. W." Crowley gulped down his cola, which was becoming lukewarm already, and wondered if Aziraphale would be shocked if he broke out the wine before lunch. Not that it mattered. It was his damn island and he could drink whenever he wanted.

"Would you like me to call you A.J., or Anthony?"

"Crowley's fine."

Aziraphale looked faintly surprised, but Crowley didn't feel like explaining that his family name was the one thing that separated him from the rest of his family. He certainly wasn't the only man who went by a family name. "And Aziraphale is fine with me."

"So, where are you intending to meet these partners?" Crowley sipped his drink, deciding to drop it for a bit. "Work dos? Online?"

"I thought perhaps a bar, if there was one catering to older men. I admit I don't know my way around Australian social life very well."

Crowley tipped his head and looked at him, pityingly. "You're working with Dagon's branch of the Evil Empire, yeah? Adelaide?" Aziraphale inclined his head. "Out of luck. No gay bars in Adelaide for anyone of any age."

Aziraphale blinked. "That can't be true. It's a sizeable city, and it's regarded as one of the safest cities in the world for gay people. I checked."

Crowley grinned. "Safe is one thing, scene is another. Figuratively no nightlife, and literally no gay bars.1 You'll be safe enough, just bored." Although it occurred to him, looking at his new friend, that he wasn't really a scene type anyway. "We need to find somewhere else for you to pick up." Aziraphale winced at the word, poor poppet. "I mean, meet someone looking for friendship possibly leading to something more," Crowley clarified, and Aziraphale relaxed. "Okay, look, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Let's just imagine you're um, on a cruise. In a beach chair, looking out over the ocean—see, don't need to stretch your imagination all that much—and the most attractive person on the ship, miraculously under eighty, has just thrown himself in the chair next to you and smiled."

Aziraphale sniffed. "What does this most attractive person look like?"

"Tall and ginger Australian. In his forties. Wears a lot of black. Valentino sunnies. Devastatingly handsome." Crowley was starting to enjoy himself.

"He sounds suspicious." Aziraphale glared at him.

"Look, I don't want to stretch your imagination too much. Now, you saw him at the gay and lesbian get-together the night before, noticed he didn't have a partner, and here he is. Might just being friendly, might be interested, but either way you need to signal interest." He smiled. "I didn't catch your name last night. I'm Anthony. Call me A.J."

"Aziraphale," said Aziraphale, stiffly.

"Nah, that's no good, he'll think you're telling him to piss off if you look at him like that.."

"Well, _he_ is _leering_ at me."

"That is not a leer. That is a friendly, approachable smile."

"If you say so. As long as the prey doesn't notice your fangs."

They glared at each other for a moment, then Aziraphale's lips twitched and Crowley shouted with laughter. "Oh, hell. At least the ice is broken. Can I get you a drink, Aziraphale?"

"I thought I was the one supposed to be flirting?"

"Part of flirting is picking up on signals that someone is trying to get to know you better. It's easier to work off that than a cold approach, especially if you're shy. It doesn't matter if someone is chatting you up in a nonexistent Adelaide gay bar or it's someone you met through a dating app, it's important to notice if someone wants to get to know you better." It was beginning to come back to him, as if he was in front of his microphone, recording a podcast. The words flowed easily.

"But what if I get it wrong?"

"There's ways to cut down the odds, if that worries you. Go where other men our age are looking, unless you're hoping for a hot young thing?" Crowley raised an eyebrow above his sunglasses, and Aziraphale shook his head, lips pressing together. "Good. And don't look so worried. This is the age when plenty of relationships have broken down and people are looking to find someone else to settle down with. But first we have to get you comfortable with the idea of showing interest and it being reciprocated."

"Hmm."

"You can start by smiling more. Got a nice smile."

"Really?" A darting sideways look, with a lot of lashes, a faint curve to the lips.

"Yeah. Like, like that. That's _good_. Do that often enough and the poor bloke will think you're planning on tearing his clothes off in public."

"Well, really." Aziraphale drew himself up, affronted.

"He'd probably let you, too." Right. Okay. He was planning on building the man's confidence up, not blurting out too much. But the whole thing made no sense. There was something intrinsically coquettish in this man, but he acted like he was clueless about the whole dating game. Crowley had a handle on swaying his hips and sprawling sexily around, but he could never pull off something like that with his lashes. He didn't know if he was being made a fool of, or if this man was just so oblivious he would never notice he was being hit on.

"So. Smile. Talk. Don't be afraid to be a bit of a bitch, it suits you. And touching. Touching is good." Aziraphale looked at him as if he had suggested assaulting strangers on the street. "I don't mean grabbing stranger's crotches, for fuck's sake. Just chaste little touches, to see if they are welcome. Using the back of your hand is good if you're nervous, that way you're not grabbing at them. And aim somewhere non-provocative, okay? If you're not looking for a quickie, then elbow is better than arse, assuming you _do_ know your arse from your elbow."

Aziraphale drew himself up, looking provoked, then suddenly chuckled "My right elbow has a fascination that few can resist. It is on view Tuesdays and Fridays, on presentation of visiting card." He drew his sleeve up as he spoke and, well, it was a very nice elbow indeed. Well looked after. Not like Crowley's, which were generally a bit rough and gross, to be honest, but clearly moisturised and pampered, above a soft forearm, and... Christ. A. J. Crowley, renowned flirting expert, was blushing over a middle-aged man's exposed elbow.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, you know," he said, trying not to let on how charmed he was. Caught up in enthusiasm, Aziraphale was bloody beautiful, there was no other word for it. His eyes flashed grey and blue and green, his cheeks were pink, even the fluffy platinum hair seemed to catch sunlight.

"The Savoy Operas, my dear boy. Have you never seen the _Mikado_?" Aziraphale leaned forward slightly, and Crowley wondered if he actually had intended to put a beautifully manicured hand on Crowley's shoulder because of the coaching, or was just carried away.

"Never heard of it. Not much for opera, although I do like Handel."

"You have no idea what you're missing out on! Next time there is a production in these parts, you must let me take you."

Crowley felt slightly dizzy. "Um, yes. You're a good study. Nice hand placement. Like the _dear boy_ myself, but some might find it a bit avuncular. Flattering, though, haven't been called a boy for bloody ages. Asking me out already, that was quick work. Maybe too quick if we'd only spoken for a minute."

The slight flush in Aziraphale's cheeks deepened, and he dropped his hand away, looking aghast. "I didn't mean... I just thought you might enjoy it."

Holy hellfire. The man wasn't roleplaying, he really had meant to ask him to go to the opera with him. Not as a date, obviously, but as if they were friends, as if they were actually going to spend time together after the visit, as if it was taken for granted that they would see each other again.

" _Mikado_ , huh. Well, I like _Dragonball Z_ ," Crowley said uselessly, wishing he could snatch his stupid speech back and say _yes, yes, we'll go anywhere you like._ He scrambled to save the situation. "Look, I don't know why you think you need my help. You're a natural. You can even establish rapport with a cranky drunk antisocial Australian."

"Oh, my dear. You don't seem particularly antisocial."

"I notice you didn't defend me from my other self-accusations."

"Well, I hate to be personal and insulting, but I'm quite sure you _are_ Australian."

Crowley stared at him, and then barked with laughter. "There you go. Seriously, you don't need my help. You just need some confidence..." He broke off. Fuck. One of his dead-set rules was never to tell people they needed more confidence to be attractive, as if self-liking was something you could pluck from the sky. He knew that, for all his own self-loathing, he came across as confident, but true confidence in himself was something he had fucked up too many times to have. "Look, you have no problem talking to me, and I'm hardly the easiest bloke in the world to befriend."

"That's different. You promised to help, and it's not as if you're a prospective partner." Crowley bit his lip, trying not to flinch. "You're not even gay. I've heard all about your ex."

"Bisexual," Crowley corrected, so fast it came out more like _bsshhhhl._ "Don't worry about her, she's been out of the picture for ages." He immediately felt stupid for saying it. Why talk like he assumed Aziraphale would worry about him being available?

"Oh." That becoming pink colour was back. "I'm sorry. You must have thought me very forward."

"S'okay, s'okay. Fine, no problem. Thing is, I don't think you're as bad at this flirting thing as you think. No one's expecting you to go up to random blokes and say _Hey gorgeous, if I say you have a beautiful body, will you hold it against me?_ Be friendly, be available, let your smile and eyes do the work, and you're golden."

Aziraphale turned and stared across the sea. "It's beautiful here."

"Yeah, you said. Place isn't bad, really." Crowley lifted an eyebrow, confused.

"I think I might go for a walk later."

"Sure. Just be careful of snakes, all right?" Aziraphale flinched. "I'll come with you if you like."

"That would be very kind." In the same bland tone, Aziraphale said, "I've never had a boyfriend."

Crowley floundered. Apparently fashion choices and mannerisms weren't everything. "Well, some blokes realise they're gay late, no shame in being a late bloomer..."

"I've never had a _partner_ ," Aziraphale specified, still staring at the ocean. "Even a casual one."

"Holy fuck," Crowley said, and then realised that might be taken as rude. "I mean, why not? Never interested? What changed?"

Aziraphale gave an uncomfortable wriggle. "It just never seemed to get there. I'm not very good at making friends either, to be honest. I suppose I'm not very likeable."

"You can cut that right out. I mean, I don't like anyone, and I—you're fine. There's nothing wrong with you. You're easy to get along with when you're not violently assaulting people and criticising their food choices. I mean, Dagon must hate you or she wouldn't have sent you here, but that doesn't count, she hates everyone. Most people must like you."

Aziraphale finally turned to look at him, arching an eyebrow. "I can be quite single-minded in my interests. And perhaps I can be a tad impatient and judgemental."

Crowley grinned at him, relaxing. "A bit, yeah. But I can be a _tad_ grumpy, lazy and rude, and you like me, right?" Oh, great, that was right, just invite him to say he didn't like Crowley and get the heartbreak over and done with. "At least you like my biscuits."

Instead, Aziraphale gave him an uncertain smile, and it was like the sun breaking out behind clouds. "You do seem to be a nice person, deep down."

"Yeah, nah, I'm not nice. Look. How's this for a deal? We're here a week. We can drop the roleplaying if it's a problem, but you can still practice on me."

"Practice on you." Aziraphale seemed to consider it, his expression oddly vulnerable. "But I have no idea what to do."

"Well, all right, how about this." Crowley was aware he was wheedling, and wasn't quite sure how things had managed to get turned around to the extent that he was begging to be allowed to do his own job for free. "You practise on me, and I turn my best seduction routine on you. We'll make a competition of it, all right? Best flirter takes all."

"But surely you realise you have an unfair advantage," Aziraphale said. He flickered his gaze from Crowley's face to his tight t-shirt, and down along his tight jeans, lingering on his thighs and calves, and back again. It must have taken less than a second to do the once-over, but by the time he reached Crowley's face again, that face was probably smoking. "You must be aware of your natural advantages."

"Urk. Yeah. Nah. I think you hold all the cards, mate," Crowley managed to say. He wasn't sure how he was going to survive the next week.

* * *

Crowley didn't usually bother with making a proper lunch, not when toast existed, but there were certain things you had to do when you had a foreign guest, and making them a BBQ was one of them. He had some decent steaks and chops to defrost, and some nice beef sausages. He stared at the fridge for a bit, muttering _vegetables_ to himself, and finally decided to venture on a potato salad.

"You're not going to peel the potatoes first?" Aziraphale asked archly. Bloody hell. The twenty-first century, and the man was arch, like he was out of a Noel Coward play or something. If it wasn't so adorable, Crowley would kick him.

"What does this look like, the Ritz? Piss off. And take that bowtie off, you're going to die. The only use for a tartan bowtie is to tie your wrists to the headboard."

Aziraphale wordlessly pissed off, and Crowley grinned to himself as he shoved roughly chopped potatoes in the saucepan. Score one in the flirting game to him. The potatoes were sort of a similar size, if he squinted. He filled the pot with water and put it on the stove.

He left the pot to come up to boil, slapped a hat on, and took the defrosted meat out to the barbecue. Aziraphale had shed the button-up, he was glad to see, although he was mildly alarmed that the man seemed to have been wearing an undershirt. DIdn't he bring any summer clothes at all? Crowley considered offering him some, but decided it would mean too much risk of embarrassment. He tended to wear his sleeves tight, for a start, and Aziraphale was proving to have rather abundant upper arms. They would be nice to squeeze.

"Put a bloody hat on!" he called over his shoulder. "There's one on the porch. Sunscreen, too."

It didn't take long until the sausages were nice and split and blackened, just the way he liked them, perfect to wrap up in white bread and tomato sauce. It was only then that he realised that he'd left the potatoes on the stove and they were probably burned or mushy or whatever happened to overcooked potatoes. He turned to get them, remembered the meat, came back, shovelled the sausages and slabs of meat into the mustard yellow tupperwear that was his last memento of his father, may his soul rot in hell, and then set off again. He was dimly aware of an amused glance at his back.

It turned out potatoes did go mushy, and also the water had overflowed and went all over his lovely ceramic cooktop, but that was fine. He squirted on some mayonnaise and tried to remember what else went in potato salad. Parsley? Chives? He grabbed an ancient canister of dried chives and sprinkled some on. It would be fine. He was a baker, not a chef. It was more important to restore his cooktop to its full beauty.

When the stove was shining again, he carried out the potato salad. Damn, he'd forgotten to defrost the sliced white bread, it wouldn't be a proper sausage sizzle."Grab a bottle of shiraz from the kitchen?"

"Shouldn't we be drinking cask wine? I thought that was the major contribution of Australia to wine culture."

"Put your tongue away, or I'll do it for you." Point two to him. Three, really, because he was pretty sure he'd stolen something about cooking being the language of love at some point. Crowley was beginning to enjoy himself. "And there's mudcake in the fridge."

A few minutes later they were settled at the table on the porch, and Crowley was watching Aziraphale pick delicately and politely at his food. He wasn't visibly shuddering, at least, although he did avoid the potato salad. And the steak was great, burnt on the outside and bloody on the inside, just the way Crowley liked it.

The wine met greater approval. Despite the plastic picnic glasses, Aziraphale treated it with respect, half-closing his eyes as he sipped. Watching him holding it on his tongue, and hearing the almost imperceptible noise of satisfaction, Crowley conceded a point to Aziraphale. The worst of it was that he wasn't sure Aziraphale was even doing it on purpose.

"I try to do myself nicely here," he said, leaning back in his chair. "But it's good to have company."

Aziraphale gave him an oddly sharp look. "Why don't you?"

Crowley shrugged. "Supposed to be a writing retreat. Get away from it all, no internet, no _family_ , finally write the great Booker Prize winning novel. Or the Miles Franklin. Haven't decided." He decided to leave out the bit where he was a coward running from his own poor reputation and embarrassment. If this lovely man didn't know already, he was damned if he was going to expose his misery to him.

"I'm sorry to intrude and get in the way of your work."

"Oh, yeah. Well. You saw how it is when you arrived. Working all the hours of the day."

"I'm glad you're avoiding the sin of sloth."

"There are more fun sins." Crowley winked, and awarded himself another point for the flutter of hands and lashes as Aziraphale looked away, pursing his lips... oh, right, that was one to Aziraphale, because his lips were ridiculously kissable like that. "Gluttony, for example. And you arrived just in time to stop me eating an entire mud cake by myself."

He was pretty proud of his mud cake. It had a disgusting amount of butter, two blocks of dark chocolate if he counted the ganache, a good amount of Kahlua, and twelve shots of espresso.2 It was the kind of thing he made when misery baking, with the direct intention to eat it with red wine until he was too sick to care what a loser he was anymore.

He had an inkling that sharing it was going to be better. He cut two thick slices and passed one to his guest.

Aziraphale stared at it, at the dark, luscious slice of kilojoules and fat on his plate, and Crowley waited for the ritual "Oh, I shouldn't!" A man as prissy as Aziraphale seemed like someone who would have to decry the indulgence before eating it anyway, especially as he was on the heavy side.

Instead, Aziraphale said rapturously, "Oh, that looks like _heaven_ ," and took a sizeable forkful to his mouth.

All right, Crowley conceded, as Aziraphale lowered a thoroughly licked fork back to his plate and collected another forkful, that was about seventy points to the other man. In all the time he had watched baking shows, he had never realised that enjoying watching the judges taste the food was some kind of kink, but he was about to expire right now, so maybe it was. Or maybe it was just that he had baked the cake himself. Or maybe...

...yeah. It was Aziraphale. Crowley had never seen someone take such unabashed hedonistic pleasure in anything before, and the knowledge that he had done something to cause that pleasure was doing something to him. It was impossible not to think of what it would be like to cause that kind of reaction in bed, or how more extreme it might be. Or to not pay attention to how much Aziraphale liked to _taste_ things, and explore their texture.

Why on earth was this man still single?

Crowley barely touched his own cake, for all his love of sweet things. He watched Aziraphale delicately pat his lips with a serviette, and daydreamed about offering to clean any mess with his own mouth, and wondered if he could make it to the sea in time to give himself a cold bath. Not that the ocean would be particularly cold in the shallows in this weather.

He wondered why it had never occurred to him to invest some of his parents' dirty money in paying handsome gentlemen to eat cake in his company. Perhaps because he had never met this one before.

Aziraphale gave him a bright smile. "So, thank you for the meal. Will you let me clean up?"

"Nah. You've done enough for me."

Aziraphale looked alarmed. "Whatever do you mean?"

Crowley shrugged. "Company." It wasn't that he could explain _I think I've developed a fetish for watching you eat._ No matter how much shiraz he had managed to down.

"I'm glad." Aziraphale's eyes, always so mobile, directed their gaze to his plate, the smear of chocolate left on the paper. "I've been terribly worried that I'm intruding."

"You're not intruding," Crowley said gruffly. He leaned over and took the plate, scrunching it up for the compost. "Was getting sick of it, just me and my babies."

"Yes. You, ah, mentioned your babies before."

"You don't like snakes and spiders, Zira?"

"Not Zira either. And I don't know. I've never made their acquaintance before. Are they friendly?"

"Nah. The snakes will curl up around you because they like the heat. Spiders won't even do that. They're not naturally affectionate creatures, not like dogs or something."

"That's a shame. Snakes are rather lovely looking. Rather like—" That darting gaze went to Crowley, and flickered away again.

Crowley grinned at him. "Go on. You're supposed to be practising, right?"

"Rather like you," Aziraphale mumbled, and it took all Crowley's self-control not to knock the table aside, crawl onto his lap and kiss the chocolate taste out of his mouth. That, surely, was a confession of genuine attraction, not practice.

But then Aziraphale's gaze returned to him, impish and mischievous, and all of a sudden he was unsure again. Besides, even if Aziraphale thought he was hot, and in all justice he _was_ , Aziraphale was looking for a serious partner. Which he had never had. Jumping him on the first day would be...

...would be either really unwelcome and cause awkwardness for the rest of the week, ruining the friendship they were developing, or be really fucking cruel. Just because he had a crush that was stupidly intense for a man of his age, and just because he had been single too damn long, was no reason to behave like a snake.

1 When I was young, we had the Mars Bar, but it is gone in the mists of time. ↩

2 There is nothing particularly Australian about mud cake, in fact I'm pretty sure it's from the US, but mud cakes from Woolies and Coles are a national institution, and also decent Australian coffee is pretty damn good. (Cue Australian/NZ fight over coffee). As at least one intrepid soul made yo-yos, I'm sharing a [good mud cake recipe](https://www.bestrecipes.com.au/recipes/dark-chocolate-kahlua-mud-cake/ct4pgbvd?r=baking/3i4zofdy&h=baking)\-- please note the advice in the comments to substitute twelve shots of espresso for the instant coffee (ugh) and water. And coat with ganache. If it's not rich enough to make you sick, you're not doing it properly. To create a perfect Australian barbeque, burn everything to cinders, wrap sausages in sliced white bread, and optionally add tons of tomato sauce/ketchup. You can have some salad or onions if you really want, but that's gilding the lily. Also, [yo-yos recipe](https://www.bestrecipes.com.au/recipes/yo-yo-biscuits-recipe/bpjhzkmo) ↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Britney Spear's "Hold it Against Me", wonderful ode to pickup lines that it is.


	3. Crowley, Anthony Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale really needs to take better care of his skin in the sun. Obviously, lavish application of soothing lotion is necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, but slow on the updates for this, but I've been both suffering from flu with a very long recovery period and trying to meet all kinds of other deadlines. (A lot better now, but without a lot of energy). Hope you enjoy this bit of fluff. As always, please say hello if you like. 
> 
> XXX Kanna

It occurred to Crowley that, if his aim was to spend as much time as possible gazing besottedly at his guest, he had been rather clever. Aziraphale was a quiet type with a phone full of books, but their bargain clearly opened the door to all kinds of romantic things like walks at sunset, sitting side by side on the couch, candlelit intimate dinners. _Hand holding._ And he had a foolproof excuse for staring, because he was assessing Aziraphale's flirting skills.

He pulled himself up sharply. Did he want the poor thing hiding from him in terror? They had just met. Funny how he kept forgetting that. Perhaps too much time alone had turned him into a creep, first touch from another human being and he was practically planning their wedding and an incredibly vigorous honeymoon. As if a nice man like that would want anything to do with Crowley anyway. He was a _librarian_. Crowley wrote books of a kind, sure, but he sold them off his website at $40 a poorly designed pdf, making all kinds of promises he couldn't keep. He was an antisocial idiot from a ruthless family who hid on an island and lived off sugar, caffeine and booze, and had no right leering at an innocent angel of a man.

He wondered if they were sober enough to go swimming. A bit of cold water might be a very good idea.

He took the tea and coffee out onto the shadowed veranda, realising he was already anticipating the pleasure with which Aziraphale would inhale his tea, and let it linger on his tongue. Funny, really, for an angel the man was quite sharp-tongued and bossy, really, but there was something about him that was made to be spoiled, a deep well of pleasure in him that rewarded being looked after. Crowley was conscious that he wanted to spoil him, pet him, make him perfect cups of tea and feed him cake and expensive wine, coax out that pleased look. Like a cat. Contrary little buggers, cats, but so plush and luxurious, and when they let you stroke them, their purr made you feel like the centre of the world. Like you would stroke them forever just to feel you were the one making them so content.

"I wondered if I could go for a walk," Aziraphale said. "There seems to be a path over the cliffs. Are there really dangerous snakes here?"

"None outside my terrariums. Takes about an hour and a half to take the cliff walk. Wait until sunset when it gets cooler. Mid-afternoon, you want to stay where there's air-conditioning. Worst time of day. You're looking a bit flushed..." Crowley narrowed his eyes. That wasn't just a pretty pink flush on Aziraphale's cheekbones and nose, and the neck where his undershirt showed. Crowley got up and circled him, frowning at the angry red skin. "Told you to put on a hat and some sunscreen, didn't I?"

"I wasn't in the sun long. I was hoping to get a tan while I was here."

"Ozone layer. Hole. Familiar? You'll tan well enough with sunscreen on." Crowley touched Aziraphale's neck very lightly with one fingertip. He didn't flinch, so it couldn't be too bad yet. He grinned to himself and circled back to the front. "Gonna have to moisturise that so it doesn't peel too much."

"I always moisturise," Aziraphale said, a little petulantly. Crowley glanced at his beautifully filed nails and was inclined to believe him. Aziraphale seemed like someone who took grooming seriously.

"Oh, but this is special moisturising. Aloe vera to cool and heal the skin. Might need some help, though. Especially with the back. If you like."

Aziraphale looked for a moment as if he was going to object, then the corners of his mouth tilted, quite deliciously. "Oh, I see. Lessons."

"Opportunities for casual touch. Plausible deniability, but skin-to-skin. And care."

Aziraphale's mouth tilted still more. "If you really wouldn't mind helping me." His eyelids widened just a little, his lashes almost imperceptibly moving. "I find it so difficult to reach around. It would be a tremendous help."

Oh, it was ridiculous. Crowley knew perfectly well Aziraphale was just playing the game the way they agreed. There was no excuse for feeling like a knight about to ride out to battle displaying the favours of the beloved.

"Right. Um. Yeah. Let me get the gel. It's in the fridge."

"Probably the closest thing to a vegetable in there," Aziraphale said disapprovingly, and Crowley grinned despite himself.

He came back with gel as quickly as he could. Aziraphale was staring dreamily out over the ocean, looking... angelic. That word again. An ordinary, slightly middle-aged man, undershirt clinging close enough to show a distinct horizontal line where his navel defined the crease of fat on his belly, white-blond curls dampened slightly with the perspiration glossing his forehead, and a sun burn blooming on kindly features. Nothing special, said the analytic part of Crowley's mind. Hardly a fashion model. _Absolute fucking sunshine in human form_ corrected his heart, and his nether regions offered their unsolicited approval as well.

He'd clearly been alone too long.

"Right," he said, as unconcernedly as he could. "Let's get your shirt off then, don't want to stain it with the gel."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, but then the shirt came off, over his head. His arms crossed a little protectively over his belly, and Crowley had to resist the impulse to gently pull them back and perve on him like a real creep. So he had chest hair, then, starting just under his collarbone, fine silver fuzz that spread down the centre of his chest just to his nipples and below, highlighting the soft curves of his chest. That was good to know. In case Crowley, oh, he didn't know, decided on a new career as a beautician, and not at all because he had a reasonable chance of ever rubbing his face on it.

He moved to stand behind Aziraphale's chair, hoping his blush wasn't too obvious. Poor man was clearly self-conscious enough without being visibly drooled over.

"Ouch," he said with some sympathy. "That's going to hurt. Delicate skin?"

"I suppose so."

"Well, this should be soothing." He gathered gel on his fingertips, spread it gently, not at all thinking that it glistened like lube because that was the furthest thing from his mind, thank you very much. He gently smoothed some on the nape of Aziraphale's neck.

Aziraphale shivered at the cold, then relaxed. "Oh, that's nice."

"Tell me if it hurts, all right?" Crowley spread the gel over the red skin, rubbing it in gently with circling fingertips. Along the neck, sliding down the sides where the sun had caught, rubbing at the base, stopping to get more gel every now and then. Aziraphale's skin was warm, whether from the general heat of the day or a light burn, but it gently faded to slippery surface. Crowley was fascinated by the way the flesh reacted to his touch, denting in at his touch and then springing back. He'd rubbed lotion of one kind or another on a few bodies in his time, but now as well-cushioned as this, and the feeling and sight when he dug his fingers in deep was enthralling, as were the soft sounds of pleasure.

He drifted into practically a dreamlike state. The breeze had turned to be from over the sea, and it was tangy with salt and lavender. It was pleasant in the shade, fingers sliding on touchable skin, conscious of the sounds of the sea, Aziraphale's breathing, his own heart. A little slice of paradise, he thought.

He worked the gel down Aziraphale's back further than he probably had any justification for doing, and paused, hands spread on the plush back. The animal part of his brain that didn't worry about things like manners and consequences was urging him to wrap his arms around the soft bare back, lean against it, nuzzle his face into the nape where skin met soft curls. It was, his hind brain told him, the nicest, _safest_ place imaginable, that neck nape, and would be full of comfort and lazily stirring lust. He could _snuggle_ against all that warm bulk. When was the last time he had snuggled? Ever? His family had not been big on cuddling, and neither was anyone he had dated. Aziraphale seemed slower-paced, comforting, steady. Cuddling up to him would be like crawling under a weighted blanket.

Oh, fucking hell, just how long had he taken rubbing moisturiser on the man, anyway? He jerked back, embarrassed.

"Um. You can put your shirt on, now. Probably best to cover your shoulders if you're going out into the sun later. I'm getting you a hat." He slithered to where the stray hats were checked, wondering whether he was setting Dagon up for some kind of sexual harassment suit, if he was apparently incapable of rubbing gel on a man without wanting to drape himself all over their lovely broad back.

Aziraphale had his shirt back on and was a little flushed. Sun, heat, or humiliation at Crowley's ridiculous behaviour. Or possibly awarding him flirting points? Hard to tell. But his eyebrow was quirked as he looked at the Akubra in Crowley's hand.

"Shouldn't it have corks on it? I'm hardly the Clancy of the Overflow type, my dear fellow."

"Yeah, well, you're not sitting in an office pining for the Bush, either. You're out here, and it's pretty isolated. Subjecting yourself to venomous snakes like a hero."

"You keep mentioning these venomous snakes, and not delivering on your promise."

"Maybe I'm the snake. Original tempting serpent."

Aziraphale looked straight at him, which made Crowley oddly aware of how rarely he did that. Their gazes held close for a moment, and Aziraphale touched the tip of his tongue to his lips as if preparing to say something. Then he looked away and the moment was lost.

"I'm afraid I'm not very good at this flirting business," he said.

"You're doing fine, mate," said Crowley, flinging himself into his chair and trying not to think about chasing that tongue with his own. "Trust me."

* * *

Aziraphale was unexpectedly easy company. They sipped wine, having switched to a crisp cool white, while Aziraphale read, and Crowley dozed contentedly with his legs hooked over the side of his chair, wondering if he should go inside and get a notebook and pretend to work. They had a little desultory conversation every now and then, then went back into a relaxed silence.

"This place is like something out of a dream," Aziraphale said at one point, watching seagulls dip and soar in the cloudless sky. "Its own little slice of the world. However did you come by it?"

"My parents and step-parents died in a helicopter crash. Pissed off their heads, went joy riding."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. No loss to the world. Anyway, all their stuff was parcelled out among the offspring. The others were more interested in company shares, and I kept enough to have some say, but I took most of my share in property. Mum was into negative gearing, and this island seemed like a place to get away from all having to take sides. How did an angel like you end up working for the forces of Hell?" The word slipped out, and he glanced sideways in panic, but Aziraphale was smiling slightly. Probably taking it as a cheesy pick-up line in the dating competition, and one not worth winning any points.

"Are they as bad as all that?"

"Spend their whole time eating up vulnerable companies, stripping them of their assets, firing everyone and moving on. Plus a nice little media monopoly. Dad was the Devil, and all his kids follow in his footsteps."

"I'm just doing some consulting. I work for a company with very traditional values back home. I've never had any problems there, but..."

"You've never had a partner."

"I don't know that they'd make any trouble. Legally, they couldn't. But it did strike me I'd be better off finding somewhere less conservative."

"Well, you managed that, all right."

Aziraphale's brow creased. "I had no idea your family were so unethical. Perhaps it was a mistake."

"Lucky mistake for me," Crowley blurted. He could feel his ears burning, but Aziraphale looked decidedly pleased, lips turning up happily, those lashes fluttering almost imperceptibly. Crowley went happily back into his usual state of half-dozing, remembering the feel of slippery skin under his fingers, imagining more.

He as woken by cold droplets flicked into his face. He yelped, catching Aziraphale's mischievous look.

"I do hope you're not getting in the way of your daily routine."

"Nah, this is it, really."

"Is it really? What do you do with yourself all day?"

Crowley shrugged. "Swim in the morning. Go for a walk sometimes. Or exercise. I've got a decent workout set-up upstairs, like to keep myself in shape."

"I can tell." There was meaning in the words, and Crowley awarded him a few more points. "Er. Anyway. I bake, watch a lot of movies. Pretend to write."

"You're not lonely?"

"Nah." He wasn't even sure it was a lie. "S'not forever. Just taking a break from it all, y'know?"

"You don't miss your friends?"

"Was never really good at the friend thing."

"Neither am I," Aziraphale said, his voice quiet. They sat together for a bit. "I can't believe you find it hard. You're very charming."

"On first acquaintance, anyway. So are you. Still. Guess we got each other now, right?" Crowley winced at the awkwardness, but told himself, flirting. It was flirting practice. He could get away with a lot that way.

"I suppose we do." Aziraphale gave Crowley a tentative smile that made him want to hug him. They slipped back into silence.

They had leftover barbecue for dinner, and watched a movie together after the sun set, settling on _From Russia With Love_ after some bickering. Aziraphale settled into an armchair, rather disappointingly, as Crowley had considered plans for teaching traditional sneaking of arms across the backs of sofas or reaching for hands. Still, it left him with enough attention for what was to him the most important part of the film, Bond going to talk to Moneypenny in the Bentley Mark IV. Not even Roger Moore shirtless could distract from that.

"I don't think 1930s Bentleys usually had car phones," Aziraphale said, breaking the magic of the moment.

"Bond's did. I guess it was a pretty impressive gadget in the sixties." They watched Bond crank up the convertible hood, and Crowley sighed. "That's totally my fantasy, you know."

"With James Bond, or with Sylvia Trench? They're both quite attractive."

Crowley grinned at him. "The shagging in the Bentley is the important bit, but I can think of better company for that right now."

Aziraphale coloured, and Crowley awarded himself a whole heap of points.

Afterwards they trailed, tipsy and happy, upstairs. "Well, good night," Aziraphale said. They stood and stared at each other for a moment, while Aziraphale's hands worked anxiously. "Thank you. For accepting me as your guest despite the surprise and my abominable behaviour. For being kind. For the flirting lessons."

"Absolutely my pleasure," Crowley drawled. "You're a good student." He shifted closer, wondering if he could suggest they practice the end of a date and a kiss goodnight. A polite, _I had a nice time_ first date peck. Only Aziraphale was all soft curves and lashes and Crowley realized he didn't trust himself to peck. Get close enough to tasting that sweet, nervous mouth, and he would be kissing with everything in him, and that would be pushing things far too far. It wasn't fair that the man was so profoundly kissable. "Well, mmm, er," he said, losing the sexy drawl, "G'night. Let me know if you need anything. I mean, anything. Anything at all. Come and get me, okay?"

"I think you've looked after me very well," said Aziraphale, with such levels of sure;y unintended meaning that Crowley turned and fled to his room.

Damn, damn, damn.


	4. The Four Horsemen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has breakfast, introduces Azirphale to his pets, and dies a little from UST.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: there are spiders towards the end of the chapter. All native Australian ones because Crowley isn't _that_ evil.
> 
> Also mentions of budgie-smugglers, which are tight-fitting bathing costumes notorious for exposing thighs and the precise shape of a man's genitalia.

Crowley's dreams were muddled but not, judging from his state when he woke in the early hours of morning, particularly chaste.

He told himself firmly, which was the operative word really, that he was not thirsty enough to lie there jerking off to a guest that--oh, for God's sake, he might _hear_ him. Crowley's sleepy brain didn't know what to do with that, fantasies of Azirphale coming in to check on him and ending up following porn plots warring with the conviction that Azirpahle was modest and prim and would spend the rest of the week avoiding Crowley and then go home never to speak to him again. No casual _is this a date or not?_ plans on the mainland would ever come to fruition. No muddled-blue eyes, no fluffy white hair and fruity voice and odd sense of comfort despite his fretful manner, no sharp tongue and soft hands, and all right, probably best not to think about Aziraphale's tongue and hands if he was set on being quiet.

He didn't know, he realised with the kind of dark clarity that comes at 3 am, if Aziraphale was into sex at all. It would solve the mystery of why someone so attractive and so very obviously gay claimed to be pretty much unkissed at pushing fifty and so desperate to learn flirting. Poor lonely old bugger. Not bugger. Wrong word entirely.

Crowley spent a tense twenty minutes trying not to move in case Aziraphale overheard rustling sheets or creaking bedsprings or _breathing_ , and drifted back off to sleep.

He woke a second time to bright sunshine and the smell of bacon. He lay there for a moment, smelling it dreamily, wondering how he had been clever enough to cook without getting out of bed.

Oh. Aziraphale. Aziraphale was down there. Cooking. In his house. Crowley let the image develop in his mind for a few minutes, rolled out of bed, pulled a black singlet on over his boxers, and took the stairs down two at a time. He only remembered just in time to turn the leap into a cool, measured swagger before he entered the room.

Aziraphale looked more domestic than even his fantasies. He had found a tea towel to substitute for an apron, tucked into his trousers, his sleeves rolled up to show beautifully rounded forearms, half turned to the stove so Crowley could admire the magnificent curve of his behind. Was this what it felt like to come down to a gorgeous husband in the morning, with the prospect of breakfast he hadn't prepared on the table? He could live with that. He could possibly even live with that without sex, as long as he could get used to gagging for it every time the man flickered his eyelashes, for the sake of so much kindness and prettiness. So long as he got to watch the man eat cake regularly and could sublimate his lust that way.

Great. Day one, fantasise about dragging him straight to bed. Day two, fantasise about working harder on sublimating his baser urges into a brand new fetish if it meant he could marry him. Perfectly normal progression of an acquaintance with his bloody evil sister's consultant.

Aziraphale cast a look over his shoulder, to Crowley's face, where it lingered, before flicking up and down him. Crowley realised that, unlike Aziraphale, he wasn't wearing very much, and also that... Aziraphale _had_ to be checking him out. Unless he was just disapproving of Crowley's lack of pyjama top. Aziraphale had smiled slightly, self-consciously, before looking back. And surely that wasn't just sunburn tinting his cheeks. Crowley preened, cheering up.

"I thought the smell of breakfast would get you down. Make coffee, there's a good fellow. I couldn't figure your contraption out. I like mine white and sweet, although probably not as sweet as you do."

Crowley made sure his hips, thinly clad in black silk, swayed properly as he made his way to his espresso machine, and kept his attention on it as he ground and tamped and brewed. If Aziraphale wanted to take advantage of the show, he would give him plenty of opportunities.

Disappointingly, Aziraphale didn't seem to be looking at his arse or his tattoo when he finally brought the coffees to the table. He had perfectly textured the milk, if he did think so himself, and then swished and flicked with the spoon...

Aziraphale looked down at his cup, and the swirled pattern in the milk, to Crowley's unadorned cup, and then back. He blinked, looking quite overcome. Ten thousand points, take that, librarian. Unexpected hearts for the win. Crowley smirked.

"I put canned tomatoes and spinach in the omelettes," Aziraphale said sternly. "I won't have you developing scurvy during my stay."

Crowley grinned slowly at him. "I clearly need someone to look after me," he purred. Oh, this was going well.

"That's the last of the bread," Aziraphale said, not as if he was paying much attention to what he was saying. "Although I suppose you'd be all right with eating cake every morning instead of toast."

"Don't tell me you wouldn't adore it," Crowley said. "I'll make some damper later. Proper Australian experience, I'm giving you."

Aziraphale paused to eat, and Crowley paused to watch him slice a knife into his eggs with the precision of a surgeon, sighing gently in anticipation. Realising he probably was staring creepily again, Crowley turned his attention belatedly to his own breakfast. They were really good eggs, and the bacon was crisp, and holy hell that was fried bread, not toast, he liked a man who didn't fuss about calories. If the lookup and down had just been part of the game, maybe he really could live happily ever after with just fraught sessions of watching the man enjoy food, and rubbing on moisturiser.

Or he'd die of deprivation. That would be a possibility, too.

"Speaking of Australian experiences," Aziraphale said, "I was hoping to swim this morning. Is it safe?"

"Safe enough from the main beach."

"No sharks?"

"They don't come close in to land here usually, but it's worth keeping a lookout. No jellyfish this time of year, either. I usually swim in the morning before it gets too hot."

"Aren't you afraid of getting into trouble swimming alone?"

Crowley shrugged. It wasn't as if he hadn't thought about it. A cramp, a dizzy fit. All alone, the endless sea around him. How long before anyone noticed he was gone? Or wouldn't they realise until his body washed up somewhere? It's not like anyone would give a shit, really, not even his siblings. The thought had a kind of deep loneliness to it, but also a kind of attraction. "Can't live being afraid to cross the road every day. Need some optimism to get you through life."

"Would you swim with me today?"

"Ooh. Did you bring budgie smugglers?"

"I brought a bathing costume if that's what you're referring to," Aziraphale said, very primly. God, he was adorable. And probably didn't wear bathers anywhere near as revealing as budgie smugglers, which was a deep and tragic pity, although probably good for Crowley's blood pressure. The discreet mesh in his board shorts probably wasn't up to the job of Aziraphale stuffed into skin-tight bathers, his thighs bare and dimpled and his endowments outlined and oh, God, now he was _thinking_ about it. The man was winning points just by deliberately and calculatedly _existing_ at him.

"Bring a two-piece, did you?"

"I'm not quite that behind the times. Really, there's no need to carry on making fun of me. I realise I am fussy and old-fashioned. "

"That's not what I meant," Crowley said, a bit reluctantly because now his mind was on how much that tight undershirt had revealed yesterday and what Azirphale would look like topless. Probably his belly would curve over the top of the waistband, and his chest would be full and grabbable. Crowley yanked his mind back to safer territories. He had quite a few UV proof rashies for swimming but... Well. There was no way Aziraphale was squeezing into a lycra top that was skin-tight on Crowley's own lean frame. Even attempting it would just be an exercise in embarrassment for them both. "You'd better wear a t-shirt over your bathers. Long-sleeved, if you have one."

Aziraphale's posture, always correct, became positively stiff. "I wouldn't want to expose myself in ways that would be unwelcome."

Shit, that was misery in those lovely hazel blue eyes, as they flickered down to Crowley's trim bare chest, and then away to a corner of the room. Aziraphale shouldn't look unhappy. Crowley rushed to correct his error. "Nahhhh, you can expose yourself all you like. Take your shirt off as soon as you get indoors. I would _love_ it," he added, truthfully. He might go up in flames, but he would love every second of his demise. "But hole. Ozone layer."

"I hardly thought you were the kind to be a model of good behaviour for sun safety."

"I just don't want to see your pretty English skin all ruined and blistering. Speaking of which... How are you feeling today?"

"I'm perfectly all right."

"Yeah? Let me check." Crowley leaned forward and pressed a hand to Aziraphale's cheek. Fuck, it felt good. The man must shave before he came down every morning. Crowley was aware he was on his own second day of growth. Aziraphale's skin was so soft--moisturised every day, didn't he say?--and, yes, it was red and warm, but that might not be sunburn. Crowley found himself hoping it wasn't. He was probably a little red himself. When was the last time he had put his hand on the side of someone's face?

Right before trying to swallow their tongue, he was pretty sure. Why oh why hadn't he worked harder on being an impressive kisser? Wasted decades.

He got up, trying to move in a nonchalant but grateful way that didn't show just how much he was thinking about kissing, and circled around behind Aziraphale. He very gently put his hand on the back of his neck. Red, and dry, and hot. He could feel the heat seeping into his fingertips. Aziraphale winced.

"How are you feeling? Any headache?"

"A little."

"Nausea?" It was unlikely, seeing the way Aziraphale was tucking into breakfast, but as well to be sure.

"No."

Crowley stroked the skin with a feather-light touch, trying to recognise the feeling choking him. Protectiveness. He was feeling protective and tender over a _sunburn._ Still, it felt right. Aziraphale clearly needed someone to look after him, even if he seemed to be taking on the role of looking after Crowley. Crowley was conscious of a sharp desire to kiss the back of the reddened neck, like kissing him better. "Yeah, nah, you're not going into the sun at all today, mate."

"Oh, but surely..."

"It can take three days for a sunburn like this to develop properly, yeah? I'm not risking you ending up with blisters or worse. I don't really want you in saltwater either yet, burn like anything. I'll get you some ibuprofen for the inflammation."

"My dear, I appreciate your concern, but I didn't come to a deserted island to not even go to the beach."

"Don't be stubborn. I'll keep you company indoors. We'll have fun." He smiled like a snake. "And you can meet my babies at last."

* * *

"She's beautiful. What is she?"

 _Aziraphale_ looked beautiful and slightly blissed out with an eight-foot snake wound around his arms and shoulders. There was just something so right about it that Crowley was weak at the knees. He wished he could take a photo, keep it forever. Maybe he could ask later.

"Chalky here's an albino olive python. Needs a hell of an enclosure. She could probably get bigger, too, if she likes."

"What do you mean, if she likes?"

"If I let her see some potential prey around, she might get bigger to eat it. A cat or possum should do it. Or a small child."

"Very funny. What does she usually eat?"

"Don't open the freezers in the laundry. Bit of a rubbish bin, Chalky."

Aziraphale caressed her rippling scales. "Do you think she likes me?"

"Told you, Phalo, snakes can't feel love."

"No, really, that sounds like a diet. Are you sure snakes can't feel love?" Aziraphale smiled dreamily at the snake. "That seems wrong to me. It feels like snakes should be loyal and protective and affectionate."

"Dogs, you're thinking of dogs, mate," Crowley said, although what he really wanted to say was yes, they could love _you_ , anyone and anything could love you when you're smiling and your eyes are tender like that.

"What about the other?"

"Sable's my devourer, always hungry." He looked down at the diamond black python, with its cream markings, as pretty as Azirpahale's skin was when it wasn't flaming red with sunburn. "He'll be a giant, too. Need a special licence for him. He's protected. Doing my bit to save the world when I decide to breed him, I s'pose. But I don't want to disturb him when he's sleeping, or I'll have to feed him." He parted Chalky from Aziraphale, who let her unwind a trifle reluctantly, and returned her to her enclosure. "You can cuddle her later, she's like a weighted blanket when you're reading. Come meet Carmine and Azrael."

Aziraphale looked quite relieved when Azrael, the bird-eating tarantula, hid under his log and didn't come out. A lot of people were wary of tarantulas with reason, though, and "bird-eating" was a bit alarming. And Aziraphale was determinedly standing by him, shoulders pulled back, hands folded calmly over his belly, leaning in close. Smelling of pettigrain, citrus and lavender, old fashioned and elegant and incredibly delicious, his breath tickling Crowley's shoulder.

"Carmine's my fireback beauty. Bit playful, but easy to handle. Raised her from a tiny spiderling." He lifted the lid of the spider mansion, and Carmine, always the trouble maker, moved like lightning. Nearly ten centimetres of gorgeous furry huntsman ran up Crowley's bare arm and shoulder and took the short step to Aziraphale's own shoulder, before Crowley could react, and ran into the inviting nape of Azirphale's neck.

Aziraphale's eyes widened with horror, but his voice managed still to be prim, if shaky. "Is she venomous? It would be most inconvenient to die here. You'd be faced with my body for days... think of the paperwork."

"Nah, nah, I mean she is, a bit, but she doesn't bite... Carmine, you evil little bitch, come out of there!" he hissed, as if spiders ever responded to either insults or their names. Crap, she was inside Aziraphale's shirt, and if he crushed her, the shirt probably cost more than the spider did. "Um, I think I need to... to get her out..."

His hands fumbled at Aziraphale's buttons, pulling them free, and he was pretty sure the trembling was not due to fear for Carmine. He was _undressing_ Aziraphale, and it had been hot enough that even Aziraphale had left off the undershirt, and he was soft and gently furred and oh _fuck_ , and don't even think of _that_ word.

He hadn't remembered to unbutton the cuffs, but that was all right, once the shirt was open he could slide it down Aziraphale's shoulders, they were lovely shoulders too, plump and squeezable, but he wasn't going to notice that, and slide his hand around to Carmine, who climbed carefully on as if she hadn't meant to cause any trouble at all.

He put her back in her mansion, and stayed with his back to Aziraphale. Not daring turn around. The images were imprinted on his brain, and he would embarrass himself if he turned. He just had to calm down, down being the operative word, because otherwise, he would embarrass them both. Getting a hard-on at a flash of skin like a bloody teenager. Ridiculous.

He stood still and listened to the rustle of Aziraphale putting himself back to rights.

"So," Aziraphale said brightly. "I am perfectly capable of removing my own clothes, so... was that an example of flirting? Plausibly deniably non-sexual touching, I mean."

"Flirting?" His voice was harsh in his own ears. "What about you? Being scared of bugs. Damsel in distress, needing rescuing. Causing all kinds of protective feelings. Oldest trick in the book."

"I suppose so," said Aziraphale, which was no answer at all. "Well, I am most grateful. Anything I can do to properly thank you?"

Crowley leaned his head in his hands and groaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is wearing Clive Christian 1872 for men, because he likes his muted luxury.
> 
> Damper is a traditional Australian campfire bread, best eaten torn off in hunks and dripping with butter. I like the varieties that get their yeast from beer. Seems the proper Aussie way to go about it.
> 
> [Traditional variety with just flour, salt and beer](https://blog.campermate.com.au/advice/camping/how-to-make-beer-damper).
> 
> [Posher one with parmesan, suitable for spoiling angels.](https://www.womensweeklyfood.com.au/recipes/beer-damper-18868)


	5. Strike Like Thunderball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dating lesson: dinner and a movie. But first Crowley has to take care of some business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait for this, and its "No betas, we fall like Crowley" state. I've been sitting on the start of this chapter for so long, blocked on all my WIPs for unknown reasons. Then today, this thing popped back into my head, and I was so excited to feel it flowing again that I couldn't help finishing the chapter and posting.
> 
> Please stay safe, dear friends, wherever you are, and let 2021 be better.

There was dignity, and there was survival, and choosing the second of the two sometimes meant heading for the upstairs bathroom muttering about a shower, then sitting on the loo cover thinking about undressing your guest. Remembering the feeling of undoing buttons, the site of warm soft peachy skin, the man practically had a bosom, just designed to caress and squeeze, soft blond hair to give texture, and speaking of texture his nipples had pebbled under the air-conditioning and they would feel just right under Crowley's tongue.

All right. He had to face crude reality. He was going to jerk off. Sitting on a toilet cover. With his guest downstairs. That was fine. The key to doing it with style was not to actually think of the guest as he squeezed and pulled. All he had to do was summon up a bog-standard sexual fantasy including himself and seven celebrities in various stages of undress and a lot of latex. No one could judge him for that.

That bloody two-person spa-bath was staring at him. It hadn't seemed a big deal when was living alone that the upstairs bathroom had the toilet in it instead of decently separate. If Dagon ever dropped in she was known to wallow in the hot tub for up to seven hours at a time, but there was a downstairs bathroom with a proper separate loo. The proximity only seemed significant right now. Because sitting staring at the hot tub Crowley could imagine taking Aziraphale's shirt off, remembering to undo the buttons first this time, with the aim of getting Aziraphale into the bath with him. Aziraphale's skin had felt wonderful slicked with aloe vera. How would it feel, soaked soft and scented with oud and roses? Hot from the bath instead of sunburn, slippery with bath oil... oh, God, slippery. How would it feel climbing onto that lush lap in the hot tub and feeling himself slide against the curve of that belly, holding onto those plump shoulders and seeing his fingers make delicious dents in the flesh, feeling those incredibly strong arms hold him close while he was free to slide and rock and grind and...

Oh. So much to getting off to safe, non-personal fantasies. Well, maybe this was better anyway. Get it out of his system and remind himself that Aziraphale was a perfectly ordinary-looking, overweight, middle-aged librarian and not some kind of glowing golden angel visited on him from heaven. Probably would be a bad idea to have a wank thinking about an angel, anyway. But Aziraphale _was_ angelic for all his bitchiness, and his face would look tender and yearning and then, as he was pleasured, take on the expression of bliss it had when he bit into that first yoyo...

_He was angry and guilty and scared, very very scared, more scared than he had been since the beginning of the world, and the anger made the fear sharper, not easier. And what was worse was how much he wanted to enfold himself in all that niceness, and the only defense he knew was to be bitchy, be angry, concentrate on all the ways Aziraphale was so bloody self-righteous and annoying, not let himself remember that he had dragged his only real friend into this mess with him and was forcing him to help. He'd slammed him against the wall and was snarling at him despite the back of his head yelping at him to stop, stop before he ruined everything. And then Aziarphale, instead of telling him to bugger off and stew in his own disaster, had gone all pliant and glowing and stared at his lips as if longing to be kissed..._

Crowley dug his teeth into the back of his free hand and came harder than he had in a very long time.

Well, that had been a thing. He didn't usually fantasize about being scared and pissed off with the object of his fantasies, but it seemed to have worked.

Couldn't he at least have normal fantasies about this man? Aziraphale was so deeply lovely. Crowley had been in a bad enough state of infatuation already, but even now, thinking of Carmine's little prank, Crowley felt an odd, flustered kind of pride in himself. Aziraphale had been in trouble, and he had _helped_ , and for some bloody stupid reason that made him feel like the centre of the entire fucking universe. He wanted to... to... save Aziraphale from drowning. Before the poor man got too upset from near death, of course. Get between Aziraphale and muggers. Find him stranded in the Bush and fly down in a helicopter and swing casually out, smirking, as Aziraphale gratefully beamed at him. Find him cornered by a vicious dog and ride down on a magnificent horse, lean down and grin and offer him an arm to swing up behind him and gallop off into the sunset, those wonderful arms around him and that platinum head snuggled against his shoulder...

Crowley would fall off if he attempted anything of the kind. He had never met a horse he couldn't fall off. Once as a fourteen-year-old he had taken lessons. The fat, placid pony reserved for the most hopeless had taken stock of him, trying very hard to impress Rebecca who was horse-mad and never looked twice at the weird goth kid, and had turned into a blazing-eyed stallion from hell. Hastur had almost pissed himself laughing and then asked Rebecca out.

Rebecca said yes. Crowley's bruises had hurt for almost as long as his pride.

The glow of release faded and as reality returned Crowley felt stupid, and shameful, and completely unworthy of even thinking such a pure, shy, wonderful man. Even his fantasies were sharp and ugly. Aziraphale deserved someone intelligent, someone kind, someone who understood about books and data control and things like that. Someone who would court him slowly and gently and cherish him and let their relationship unfold like a bloody blossom. Nott some needy, desperate, unethical bastard who couldn't see a man's bare shoulders without needing to rub one off.

Crowley cleaned up the mess with toilet paper, wincing, and took a very long shower, fuck the environment for once, head bent under the pounding water, until he felt calm. Then he pulled on some swim shorts, even putting on a shirt in deference to his guest. 

He absolutely did not spend twenty minutes deciding which shorts flattered his arse and legs most first. It was entirely a coincidence that the ones James Bond wore in _Thunderball_ happened to be flatteringly tailored and very short. 1 Not a bad movie. Heartbreaking that the Bentley Continental Coupe from the book hadn't made it in, but then, there was Sean Connery in shorts to compensate.

The first movie he and Aziraphale had watched together had been a James Bond movie. It was almost like James Bond was their song. Movie. Whatever, he was fucking losing it, that's what he was doing, creating some kind of relationship history out of thin air.

Aziraphale was settled in an armchair near the picture window, looking out over the beach, but immersed in what was probably a fascinating book on his phone. Crowley, feeling like it was a half-hearted way to make up for the whole inappropriate getting off to fantasising about his guest thing, went and made him a cup of tea, and pulled out a packet of lamingtons to arrange on a plate. Look at me, he thought as he brought them out and set them on the coffee table, being a good host. Ligur would piss himself laughing.

Aziraphale looked up at him, and then at the tea and lamingtons as if they were rather more interesting than a skinny ageing redhead in short shorts and a tight black t-shirt. Good. That was normal. That was two fully dressed adult men, having a cuppa. Like friends. He could get through this.

Aziraphale's gaze came up again to meet Crowley's eyes full-on, something Crowley had already realised he didn't do much. Those round, pretty eyes were hazel-green now, and they shone. Sparkled. Like bloody stars.

"Morning tea," Aziraphale breathed. "My _hero._ "

Crowley tried very hard to slouch nonchalantly to the couch, and tripped over the corner of the rug, splashing tea down his front. The indulgent chuckle from behind him didn't help his dignity. He slumped in his seat in what he hoped approximated effortless cool, and gulped his tea. Maybe the heat from it would explain being beet red.

"I'm not used to having no work to do," Aziraphale said, a bit fretfully. "I'm all at odds and ends."

"You should cultivate sloth. Good for the soul."

"Very bad for the soul, is the general opinion." 

"Well, there's still work to do. We've met on holiday, right? Some isolated beach town getaway."

"I thought we were on a cruise."

"Nah,too many people around. You've taken a shack for a short break, I'm a local you are chatting to at the fish and chips shop as we wait for our orders, we hit it off straight away, and I've casually dropped into the conversation that I'm single and into men."

"You talk as if that's a thing that regularly happens to me." Aziraphale's eyebrows pinched together, and Crowley had the distinct desire to rub the line away with his thumb.

"With your smile? If it's not happening, I bet it's just that you're not noticing," Crowley said, with a flash of unreasonable jealousy at every man who had ever hit on Aziraphale, and equally unreasonable spiteful pleasure that none of them had succeeded in making him notice. As if he wanted the poor bloke to be lonely. "We need to work on you noticing. But all right, I'm just being _ordinarily friendly_ and you're going to take a risk by suggesting you want to get to know me better. Not much of a risk anyway, is it? You're heading back to the city in a bit. You need never see me again." Great, now he was depressing himself. Time to remember that he and Aziraphale sort of already had a date arranged when he went back to the mainland. Not a date. A meeting."

"A fish and chips shop? Really?" 

"What's wrong with fish and chips?" Crowley snapped, trying not to be distracted by that delicious petulant pout. "Do you not like fish? I've some lovely barramundi in the freezer I could tempt you to..."

"I like _fish._ Just not all greasy like that. I much prefer sushi. A good sushi chef respects the beauty and delicacy of the fish." A gentle glow suffused Aziraphale at the thought, and he leaned forward, his face shining with enthusiasm. "Perhaps _I_ could tempt you to sushi. I know a little place..."

Crowley felt a stupid smile creep over his own face, and tried to repress it. "Um, yeah, very good. I would definitely say yes to that date. Only we're not in the city, we're in a little country town, and there are no sushi restaurants."

"None?" Aziraphale looked tragic.

"Not one. There's the fish and chip shop, the pub, and that's it."

"A good pub? With delicious food?"

"Pub grub. It might do a half-decent chicken parmi. Quarter decent at least."

"What?"

"Schnitty with tomato sauce and cheese."

Aziraphale visibly winced. "Oh, I really don't think so."

"Look, it's not so bad. It has tomato sauce on it. Practically vegetables. You approve of vegetables."

"Then we certainly must go and sample this chicken parmi together. Anything to prevent you wasting away from scurvy."

"It's a date," Crowley said, and then realised they were smiling delightedly at each other. He cleared his throat. "See. Easy as."

Aziraphale's radiance dimmed a little.

"What's wrong?"

"Well, it's easy with you. You're setting yourself out to be agreeable for the purposes of the roleplay."

"Agreeable? Me? Nah, don't say that. Nasty mean bugger, me."

Aziraphale jutted out his chin stubbornly. There was a delectable rounding of flesh between his chin and neck. "I am aware that I can be quite irascible and set in my ways at times."

"Bossy bastard, you," Crowley agreed, fighting the urge to reach out and pinch the cheek.

"And I am aware that it can make me difficult to get along with."

Fuck, those eyes should never have that expression. They should be soft and twinkling and gentle. "Look, no one hits it off with everyone they meet. Numbers game, isn't it? You have to find someone who appreciates bossy bastards."

"Like who?" Aziraphale asked sadly, and that was nearly it. Crowley could taste the words _like me_ on his lips, taste the tea and coconut and cake on Aziraphale's mouth. Say it, abandon this stupid game of preparing him to date someone else, kiss him. _Easy as._ Only they had only just met, really, and Aziraphale was going to be trapped on this island and in this house for a while, and had shown no indication of wanting to date _him._

"People with taste," Crowley said, which was as close as he could come to a declaration.

"That's very kind of you to say."

"Don't say that. It's not kind at all," Crowley snapped, and stalked out to spray some water on the spiders' leaves before he said something unforgivably stupid.

* * *

It wasn't until dinner--some refrozen stew from the freezer, that had _carrots_ in it, talk about scurvy, but at least the wine was good--that Aziraphale said softly, "You _are_ very kind, you know." He pursed his lips. "It's been bothering me all afternoon. I show up unexpectedly, in your private space, am abominably rude to you, and then make a frankly outrageous request. And you not only welcome me, you humour me. It's very kind indeed."

"Yeah nah," said Crowley, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him. "You're helping me."

"Helping _you?_ " Aziraphale said, looking startled and not at all displeased at the thought.

"Yup. I've been neglecting my career, since... yeah, well. Maybe this is the boost I need. I can coach you, and get practice in seeing how I can build up the confidence of a real in flirting. Mutually beneficial arrangement, right?"

"An arrangement?" Aziraphale's eyebrows lifted slightly as he considered it.

"Sure, sure," said Crowley. He was making it up as he went along, anything to have an excuse to spend more time with his guest, but Aziraphale's response was encouraging. "I don't do _favours._ I don't know where you got the idea that I'm a nice bloke, but you're dead wrong. An arrangement that benefits us both, that's something else. I could include you as a case study in my book."

"How truthful are your claims in your writing?" Aziraphale asked sceptically, and Crowley tried not to grin so much. Fuck, he adored him. 

"Bit of artistic license. Everyone makes things up. It's expected."

Aziraphale hummed dubiously, but thank fuck, his eyes were twinkling again, and all was well in the universe.

They talked more generally during dinner, and Crowley tried not to watch him too much, because he was supposed to be teaching the poor man helpful flirting techniques, not staring at him like a creep that would require a restraining order after a first date. Conversation was easy, once Aziraphale relaxed, and of course once the wine was flowing. Aziraphale often gave the impression that his mind was sharp and shining as a pin, but fuck the man could ramble after a few glasses. He also started to be liberal with the 'dears' and 'dear boys'. Crowley knew it wasn't anything personal, knew that 'my dear fellow' was more patronising than anything, but it still pulled at his gut. Made him imagine it said differently, tenderly and possessively. He was drinking far too much himself, he knew, but while drinking often made him morose and bitter, all he felt was warm and relaxed.

When the plates were cleared, Aziraphale said demurely, "Thank you for a most pleasant dinner."

The formality of it startled Crowley for a moment. Then he remembered that the game was still on. "Let's do it again soon," he said easily. "Let me call you a taxi, I'm not fit to drive."

"I'm sure you go too fast for me." What the hell was that? Warning or flirtation? Crowley blinked, wishing he could sober up and make sense of it. "It just seems a shame to end our evening so soon."

"Asking me back to your place already? I thought _I_ was the one going too fast. But sure."

" _Crowley_ ," Aziraphale admonished. "I was thinking more about attending a late night movie."

"I heard the local theatre is having a James Bond festival. Do you like James Bond?"

Aziraphale's gaze flickered to Crowley's long legs, and his tight Sean Connery swim shorts. "Very much indeed. Especially _Thunderball._ " Oh, fucking hell, a hundred points to the librarian. 

When he trusted himself to speak, Crowley said, "Come on, then. My treat."

* * *

Pretending to be in the movie theatre meant a good excuse for sitting close, but Aziraphale, apparently a stickler for realism, found a cushion somewhere and sit it upright between them to be the seat arm. Crowley glared at it. He hadn't even been aware he possessed cushions.

He began to remember why movies were such popular dates though when Aziraphale, still playing up the fantasy, leaned in to whisper comments in Crowley's ear. Rather cutting comments. He wasn't impressed by the jet pack, for a start, or the tulips, or by the way Bond treated women. He was a complete bitch, in fact. Crowley loved it. But frankly Aziraphale could have been reciting the alphabet, as long as it was breathed into Crowley's ear, his breath tickling the sensitive shell. He whispered back in response, placing his lips close, hoping he was right that Aziraphale would become just a little tense and distracted.

He had lost score on both sides, and didn't care. It felt strangely intimate, whispering in the darkness, to avoid being overheard by people who weren't actually there.

It was when Domino was weeping on the beach that Crowley realised no sarcastic comments were coming, not even about Bond having changed _the shorts_. Aziraphale was looking fixedly at the screen. Surely he wasn't actually _sad_ at the scene? No one could be that soft, surely. No, his face was tense, jaw set hard. Had Crowley done something wrong?

He was about to ask when Aziraphale's hand moved slowly, carefully over the dividing cushion, and brushed fingers against his own. Crowley's hand turned over so fast he was surprised it didn't make a wooshing sound. Certainly too fast for conscious thought. He gripped Aziraphale's hand as if it was a lifeline.

"Is... is that all right?" Aziraphale sounded nervous.

"Perfect," Crowley breathed. "Full points."

Aziraphale made a small pleased sound, and Crowley interlaced their fingers tightly, in case Aziraphale had any idea that having achieved his points he could steal his hand back. They had an awful lot of movie to go. Thank everything that _Thunderball_ was pre VHS release movies. Crowley had... he had _ages_ to hold hands, feeling warm skin against his.

At some point he became aware his grip had relaxed and he was stroking his thumb against the heel of Aziraphale's hand, but Aziraphale didn't seem to mind. The comments had stopped, but Crowley didn't care. He could sit there for hours, for days, holding the hand of this beautiful man, linked closely together, imagining that...

...that they were _actually_ on a date. That Aziraphale had met him, liked him, saw him as a potential partner. Oh, he was an idiot. He wasn't going to let go anyway. 

When the film finished, Crowley drew a deep breath, and ordered the lights up and the TV off. They both tried to stand at once, awkwardly, and Crowley realised he was making things difficult by insisting on holding hands. He took a deep breath.

"Coffee?"

"It's too late. I would never sleep," Aziraphale said, and Crowley didn't have a clue whether they were pretending to be talking about heading to a cafe or the kitchen. Either way, it wasn't happening. Aziraphale was glancing here and there, all around, as if he couldn't wait to escape. Crowley could feel himself sinking into disappointment, surliness creeping up over him. "I hear they're showing _You Only Live Twice_ next week. I don't suppose you'd be interested..."

"Yeah. Yeah, I am," Crowley said quickly.

"I will call you, then. That was all right?"

"Ahhhyeahrgh. That was perfect. Let him know you want to continue, no pressure. But nailing down to concrete plans, not just that you hope to see him again sometime. We'd already exchanged numbers to meet up at the pub, yeah?" He should actually have covered that earlier. He was terrible at this.

"I suppose we had." A tiny smile.

"Then... I'll text you, Aziraphale. Set something up."

"Text? Surely a phone call would be more appropriate.

"Yeah. Don't go straight to phone calls. A few texts back and forth, keep contact up until our... your... date. Can practice text flirting."

"All right, then. I suppose we had better exchange numbers for real." He pulled his phone out of his pocket, shaking slightly.

Crowley grabbed for Aziraphale's hand again as they headed upstairs. We're heading to catch taxis to our own places, he told himself, the feeling of unreality strange on him. Not upstairs. Hand in hand. To where our bedrooms are. Certainly not to share them.

They paused outside Aziraphale's door.

"Well, then."

"Yeah."

"Thanks for a lovely evening." Aziraphale was...

Aziraphale was staring at his lips. And the expression was familiar. The expression was the same one he had seen in his wretched fantasy, open and longing. Confused by this, Crowley only realised what was going to happen when the other man raised a questioning eyebrow, and Crowley only just managed to nod fervently before Aziraphale tilted his mouth up.

Crowley leaned in gracelessly and eagerly, but Aziraphale kissed like a gentleman and an angel. A soft, delicate press of velvet lips, a devasting pull at Crowley's lower lips before kissing again at a slightly different angle, then pulling away.

Crowley stared blankly down at him, all his higher brain functions gone, only the word _kiss_ repeating stupidly in his brain. He wanted to kiss him again, kiss him over and over, shove him against the wall, not in anger this time--this time?--but in passion, our everything he felt out in kisses. _I'm yours, I've always been yours, will you be mine? Is it us?_ He held his arms down by his side, trembling.

Aziraphale stepped away. "Goodnight, my dear," he said, and closed his bedroom door between them.

Crowley stumbled back to his room somehow. Kissed. Aziraphale had kissed him. They were both a bit merry on wine, but his hand still felt warm from all that hand-holding, and his lips... Had his lips ever felt warm before? Just practice. It had just been practice. Good timing, a kiss at the end of a first date, not too sexual or demanding but a clear expression that things were moving in romantic terms and not just friendship. Not real.

It had felt real. It had felt like something he had longed for all his life, not just since a librarian coder whatever had dumped him in the ocean and woken him up. Woken all of him up.

He curled up on the bed, replaying the kiss over in his head, until his phone vibrated. he snatched it up. Surely none of his siblings would text him now, no matter how infernal their timing.

_Was that all right? Or too early for a first kiss?_

_Perfect_ he swiped. It seemed to need more. It was brutal and abrupt. Aziraphale deserved better than a one word response. Perhaps an emoji?

_Perfect, angel_

He stared at the screen for a while, wondering what he had just typed, then erased the 'angel' and replaced it with a _Full marks, talk to you soon_ and a heart. Perfectly appropriate for practicing flirting by text.

Pretending to start a relationship.

I have never seen a James Bond film straight through, but I am a huge fan of the music and the aesthetic.

1 I should not admit to how long I spent deciding on swim shorts for him. I was tempted by Australian brand Venroy Snappies ("Our classic swim short cut the Snaplock introduces an Italian made slide-clasp front, mesh lining and reinforced fit with internal drawstrings. Tapping into that retro surfing flair, Snappies' are a blast to the past and an honour to our leisure wearing forefathers") before I remembered that book Crowley is canonically a bit of a James bond nut. Here are the [Thunderball shorts](https://www.orlebarbrown.com/au/men/swim-shorts/thunderball-swimshort/navy/272382.html) in all their beauty. Some reviews state they tend to go a bit transparent in water (just what I'd expect of a pair of swim shorts that cost nearly $400 in Australian money to do) so... Well. There may be a swimming scene in the future. ↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chicken Parmi](https://www.recipetineats.com/chicken-parmigiana/) on one of my favourite Australian recipe sites. If it doesn't have parmi on the menu, it's not a true Australian pub.


	6. Whenever, Wherever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had not taken Aziraphale very long to wonder if he had signed his soul over to work for the devil.

Aziraphale had always been prone to insomnia. White nights were easier when he was in his own home, his own safe space, surrounded by books and tea and the chance to potter. It was much worse in a virtual stranger's home, in a sterile nightmare of a bedroom. He was seized with the terrible uncertainty of a guest who is not certain if it is proper to leave the bedroom and wander in the early hours, or if it is more polite to pretend to be locked in.

Especially when you could still feel the warmth of the virtual stranger's hand in yours and the touch of his lips on your own. 

Aziraphale had _kissed_ Crowley. He writhed in mortification at the memory. Not just a peck, either. He had kissed him and then moved his head to get a better angle, there was no way he could pretend this to be anything but a real kiss. His instinct had been to touch mouths and then go straight into _nice_ , _more._ He couldn't understand how he had dared. He had already been ridiculous, he knew, pretending to himself it was a real date, that someone as attractive and worldly as Crowley would actually be interested in someone like him, spend time with him out of pleasure and not because Aziraphale had been dumped on him by his sister. Aziraphale was realistic about not being in Crowley's league physically or socially, and that had been clear enough by the awkwardness of Crowley's response to his kiss. No answering passion at all. The poor man had seemed frozen, with horror, no doubt.

He had been kind, true. Taken it all as part of the flirting training, which again was ridiculously kind of him to do at all. He _was_ kind, despite appearances, and surprisingly considerate considering Aziraphale had begun their relationship, no, that was silly, their acquaintanceship by losing his temper and dumping his host in his sea. He shuddered to think about it. What demon had possessed him?

Resentment, heat and disappointment. Because the man he had been secretly dreaming about for weeks had turned out to be a drunken, discourteous drunk who left his guest out in the summer sun without inviting it in.

He was desperately sorry. He had no way in those moments to know that Crowley was actually incredibly laid-back and friendly. If only Dagon hadn't given him the impression Crowley was expecting him, he wouldn't have been so put out. It had been strange of her. But then, she was a very strange lady.

* * *

It had not taken Aziraphale very long to wonder if he had signed his soul over to work for the devil.

It had been incredibly flattering to be headhunted by Beatrix Prince, CEO for their family company. They had taken him out for dinner, wined and dined him, and he thought they were being as polite as they could manage, despite their bored attitude and blunt manner. You couldn't expect too much formality from Australians, after all. That was probably the reason they gave a vague sense of lack of hygiene, too.

"But why me? I don't flatter myself my skillset is anywhere so unique that you couldn't find someone in Australia to fulfil the role."

Beatrix shrugged, careless, their attention already elsewhere. "I can make the working visa happen. You have qualifications that are hard to find in the right combination with your technical skills."

"What kind of qualifications are they?" he asked, cautiously.

"You're used to working for an old family business."

He stiffened at that, long experience of what "family" could be code for. Of course, he was only technically gay, given his lack of social life, but certain camp mannerisms and habits of dress were ingrained in him. He had no intention of hopping out of one hostile atmosphere into another where he didn't eve have the links of blood to keep him safe. But then he looked at Beatrix, scowling and gender ambiguous, and relaxed a little. "What do you mean?"

"You understand what it is like to put the family first, and be discreet. We need someone like that. It seems we were supposed to be able to produce records and minutes and paperwork, bullshit like that, and my sister Dagon's filing system is somewhat... unique." They smiled, and there was no humour in it. "We need someone who will help her find what information she wants when our lawyers need it, and only that. You're used to keeping family secrets. You'll do."

It was a questionable proposition, he knew that. But Aziraphale was desperate to get away from his own family, just for a bit. Contract work. It wasn't like he was leaving them for _good_. He was still loyal. He was just... going to be in another country for a while. Seeing the sights. Sampling the cuisine. The pay was good. Perhaps enough for independence, of the contract lasted long enough...

Beatrix had made a point of ordering him Australian wine out of some kind of glowering patriotism. It was very expensive, and very good. So was the food. He was feeling hazy and sated, and freedom, just for a while, was dangling in front of him. It was the first sign that this family were accomplished at temptation, but he had been too mellow to be wary.

"Do you all work for the family company?"

"Yeah." They swilled down their wine before adding, "Except AJ. You won't have to bother with him. Thinks he's a star, useless wanker." Then, as if the topic had already lost interest, "You'll get on alright with Dagon. Same fucking boring obsession with cataloguing. She's a bit bonkers about it, really. She can be a vindictive bitch, though, so don't sleep with her or anyone she's sleeping with."

"I won't," Aziraphale assured them.

* * *

He had, surprisingly enough, indeed got along fine with Dagon. She smiled too much in a faintly intimidating way and had the manners of a spoiled and overindulged rich brat, but her electronic filing system was indeed fascinating. Aziraphale had never experienced anything like it. It was almost like it was deliberately engineered to create maximum paperwork and minimum repose to enquiries. There was a _lot_ of work to do, and Aziraphale carefully didn't think too hard about the moral implications of what he was doing. He was hired to do a job, and he had to do it to his very best ability, and not worry too much about policy. besides, the puzzle was interesting, and he loved cataloguing.

The only problem was that Dagon kept trying to find him dates. "No point being in a new city if you don't slut around without consequences. No gay bars here, gay social life involves going to rainbow parenting pub meets, not bad for picking up single parents, mind you. I can take you some time. But apps are better."

"I'm not much for dating. I never quite got the hang of it," he confessed, handing her coffee.

"Why not? You're not that bad looking. Fat, but some men like some padding on the arse. A funny dresser, but that's cute. You should talk to my big brother AJ for advice," she said, and cackled with her alarming laughter. "Fancies himself a dating guru, the useless cunt."

It was the second time he'd heard that adjective applied to AJ, and Aziraphale spared a moment to consider exactly what kind of sibling this extraordinary family considered useless. He'd been in on a video conference with Hastur, after all. That might have been the first twinge of soft feeling he felt for the unknown AJ. Gabriel and Uriel were very kind and patient, of course, but he was aware he didn't quite live up to the family values.

"AJ has some videos on YouTube promoting his books if you need a laugh. Here. Can't work all the time, you know." She leaned over him and pulled up a video.

It hadn't seemed ludicrous. A sinuous man in black, cheekbones sharp under black glasses and a ginger undercut. Impossibly long legs, a laid-back sprawl. He had seemed familiar somehow, as if he'd lived in Aziraphale's heart all along. Ridiculous. That kind of man, stylish and probably straight, was his natural antithesis. But he somehow didn't want to watch with Dagon there, wheezing with laughter.

He closed the video down. "I do have work to do, dear lady. Is his last name Duke like yours or Prince?"

"Nah, he's from the Crowley branch. Bloody stupid name," said the woman named after an ancient harvest god. "Almost as bad as Anthony."

"Anthony?"

"He pretends its his real name, but he's actually got AJ on his birth certificate. His Mum thought it was cool. Mind you, she changed her own family name to sound like some famous wizard or something, so her judgement on what was cool wasn't the best, poor pet." Dagon gave one of her strange, predatory grins.

Aziraphale said slowly, "Anthony Crowley." It was a nice name.

When he got home that night he watched all the videos, downloaded the radio show archive, and ordered the books. He finally fell asleep at four in the morning, lulling himself off with stupid, impossible daydreams.

It was hopeless, anyway. It was easy to tell people how to date when you were charming, self-possessed and looked like _that_. Anthony had probably never been turned down in his life. Neither had Aziraphale, of course, but that was because he was clear on what his chances with other men were. Still. Anthony Crowley had a habit of leaning towards the camera, a crooked, teasing grin on his face, one eyebrow quirked above his dark glasses, that made Aziraphale's heart beat faster. As if he could do _anything._ Be charming and seductive. Find love. Be wanted. Find a soul-mate, and ease this aching wound in himself that felt like someone he had never met had been ripped away from him. And Aziraphale's natural instinct was to research, to believe that if he read enough, explored deeply enough, he would find the right rules, and following them would make everything make sense.

He searched on his phone when he woke up, and found that Crowley had stopped his radio show, videos, books and newspaper column suddenly about two years ago, and vanished from the public eye. It was a mystery without any apparent clues.

He wasn't sure why it upset him so much.

* * *

"Beez wants you to go interstate for a week. Now." Dagon parked herself on his desk, knocking half his notes off, and helped herself to his fresh cup of coffee.

"Why, what have I done?"

"It's not what you've done, it's what you know. Better not to have you around when questions are asked, all right? Non disclosure agreement or non disclosure agreement."

"Auditors? Or the police?" Aziraphale asked warily, his suspicions surfacing.

"Lawyers. Hate 'em. Ligur will handle them though, he's the one with all the law degrees. You're going to stay with my other brother."

Aziraphale gave her a tight little smile, hoping above hope he would be assigned Eric, the youngest sibling. He didn't think he could endure a week with Hastur. "Which brother would that be? I'm sure I can find my own accommodations if necessary, dear."

"Yeah nah, too easy to track you down in a hotel. You're going to stay with AJ."

"With Crowley?" Aziraphale burst out, and then blushed. He felt like he shouldn't have known what name AJ Crowley identified himself by. It might lead Dagon to guess that he had spent all too many nights watching his videos, or falling asleep to his drawling voice.

Dagon didn't seem to notice. "Yeah. He's staying in the family holiday place. A little island off Tasmania. Great beach, you can see the real Australia, and catch up with your work in peace. Get out of this fucking heat, Tasmania's always cooler."

That _did_ sound tempting. Aziraphale had experienced his first few days over forty degrees in a row, and he still hadn't become used to the way he would emerge from a building and feel like the dry heat physically punched him in his face. An aging, overweight, overheated person was, he felt, an inevitable figure of fun, and he was terribly self-conscious about arriving at work red and sweaty from the few minutes it took to get from airconditioned tram to airconditioned work. Aziraphale liked to be neatly put together, not worrying about if he smelled.

But... Crowley. Crowley with the crooked smirk and confiding manner and the lovely books that kept telling him he would be all right, there was someone out there for him. A body of knowledge he just had to research and learn, and everything would be all right. He was _good_ at research. 

"He's expecting you and he's happy to help. Even for him, family has to come first, or he'll feel the consequences. Maybe _he_ can convince you to start dating. It's his job, after all." Dagon gave him one of her mouthfuls of teeth that he had learned was intended to be friendly. "It'll be educational."

* * *

Crowley had been unexpected in every way. Aziraphale had taken a violent dislike to that snake tattoo, elaborate and -- well, Aziraphale didn't like to even think judgmental words like _slutty_ , not when there were people who bent page book corners or scalded tea that were far more deserving of judgment than people who just had harmless sex a lot -- but he suspected Crowley would actually get a kick out of it being called slutty. He was the kind of person who was confident in and rejoiced in his own attractiveness. The tattoo was the serpent equivalent of a "get it here" sign pointing at a taut behind that could not be more different from Aziraphale's own soft posterior. The tattoo was what he had expected of the perceptive, understanding and very cool dating guru. It also was something he disapproved of, and it was entirely unfair that he stayed up half the night thinking about water running down over it.

He hadn't expected the very together dating expert to eat like an twelve year old with an unlimited budget and surprisingly refined taste in alcohol. Even more unexpected the nurturing instincts it aroused in him. A stupid cliché, the bad boy who just needed someone to look after him. Aziraphale knew that, and found himself longing to cook for him and make him eat his greens anyway. _He just needs someone who cares_ , oh, that was a dangerous thought.

The barbeque. It had been highly amusing, but that inedible potato salad had woken very dangerous feelings of tenderness. And Crowley, defiant and humorous all at once, so impossibly gorgeous in the flesh and bone. More bones than flesh, although Aziraphale couldn't help noticing the muscle. Crowley was completely out of his league, to take the crude term. Not someone looking for a librarian who wasn't even the fun community helper type, but someone who spent their time coding databases. 

And now Aziraphale was in--oh, what a mess he was in. That frankly impertinent impulse to ask Crowley for help, like asking a professional musician to perform for free at a party, when he was imposing on the man's hospitality already. He hadn't really expected Crowley to help. Especially hadn't expected him to be devote the week to it, to talk to him in that gentle, reassuring tone that was so at odds with his cool image. To play the part so perfectly, look at him as if he really was the most wonderful, desirable creature, work on building his confidence. It would have been excruciatingly embarrassing, except that Crowley was also so playful about it. Oh, he had been wrong about Crowley. Crowley was, under all the rudeness and scowls, an incredibly nice person, as well as captivatingly handsome.

It really was not an excuse to pretend to himself it was real, even for a moment. When he reached the end of the week, and Crowley would turn him out into a dating world he had no idea still how to navigate. Cruises. Fishing towns. Did the boy get all his ideas out of cheap romance novels?

If he did, there was no more romantic spot than a deserted island for two.

Aziraphale was having so much fun. It surprised him, a little. He didn't think of himself as the sort of person who had fun. He savoured good food, of course. He got quiet pleasure out of filing. He liked books. But the odd flirting and bantering and bickering was _fun_ , it made his heart feel light and everything seem sparkling. he hadn't playacted since he was a child, and Crowley took so much obvious glee in inventing scenarios. When Crowley looked delighted or impressed at Aziraphale's daring, Aziraphale felt like he glowed. And Crowley never seemed to mind when Aziraphale was bitchy or petty. He seemed to like it. Aziraphale had never felt quite so accepted and appreciated in someone's company, even when Crowley was clearly annoyed with him. He had never smiled so much and so sincerely. 

That _spider._ Crowley had been so gallant and... well, Aziraphale wasn't stupid. For unknown reasons, Crowley had been living the life of a very wealthy hermit, and probably hadn't had human touch for ages. His arousal had been a spontaneous physical reaction to touch and the situation, that's all, and didn't mean any more than that. Crowley was probably even more touch-starved than he was. And oh, Aziraphale knew himself to be touch-starved. That hand gripping his own. He hadn't even been able to think about the movie, too aghast at his own daring and then too shocked by the response, by how _good_ it felt, two people linked by simple touch. Something he had dreamed about even more than the more adult rated dreams he sometimes had, dreaming of someone who chose to be with him, was happy in his presence, would slip a hand in this just to reaffirm how close they were. Side by side, choosing each other. He had never wanted to let go. He had sat there pretending they were in love, that he was wanted, that the rush of affection and longing he felt was reciprocated. 

That Crowley was _his_.

Aziraphale wished he had never come to the island. But the feel of the kiss still lingered on his lips, and if he never had anything else in his life, he had that.

* * *

At seven in the morning, Aziraphale, his head aching and feeling like a bolt of iron had been inserted behind his eyes, thought it would be acceptable to get up. He felt mildly feverish, and around three in the morning the sunburn had set in properly. He felt like metal spiders were trapped under his skin, wriggling and scraping, and he thought half madly that he should ask Crowley to catch them and add them to his babies.

He dragged himself up and showered, and then went to check on on the... babies. Chalky gleamed pale and beautiful, tasting him on the air with a flickering tongue, and Aziraphale wished he could get the snake out out, let the soothing cold weight settle around him. He felt it would be comforting on his sore skin. He had never realised quite how much he had wanted a snake, before. But what if Chalky escaped? How would he explain that? He had been enough of a nuisance to poor Crowley already without setting his pets free.

"Good morning, beautiful things," he whispered to them instead. "Be good monsters today? Yes, of course you will. I believe in you." He beamed at them approvingly. "Silly Crowley, of course you feel affection. I'm sure you love him very much." The words felt thick in his mouth.

He drifted to the kitchen and found some anti-inflammatory pain killers for his poor abused skin. Be busy and make himself useful, that was the key. He hadn't really been earning his keep. And there had to be something in the pantry not made of sugar and artificial sweetener. After all, Crowley had made a cooked breakfast the morning before.

Twenty minutes later, beef sausages and bacon were sizzling, baked beans were in the microwave and Aziraphale was sautéing frozen spinach and canned champignons in butter in the hope that it would convince Crowley to eat some vegetables. Spinach, mushrooms and beans, it was a start. He turned at a crow of delight from behind him.

"Breakfast? _Angel._ " 

They stared at each other for a moment. Crowley, it seemed, had decided to work out before breakfast. He was wearing very tight lycra shorts that clung to his thighs and... Oh, dear. That much bulk was probably just protective padding, or otherwise Crowley had been unusually blessed. His hair was damp with perspiration, His chest was bare except for a microfibre towel cast over his shoulders, and red fuzz glistened in the clean sweat. Getting hot and sweaty was completely different when you had a figure like that, it just made all your muscles gleam. And of course Crowley was the kind to work out before breakfast. He obviously cared about those things, being fit, keeping his body in what would be flawless condition if not for the constant threat of scurvy, looking after his appearance. Staying attractive.

Aziraphale was staring too much. He couldn't help it. He stood there, wooden spoon in hand, looking blankly and thinking all kinds of ridiculous, romantic things about Ancient Greek Olympians, and he wasn't sure who was blazing more scarlet, Crowley trapped under his unabashed stare or himself.

"I'll just, ah. Um. Shower. Don't want me stinking up the place at breakfast. Be right back. Good--full points, by the way. Making breakfast is good. Very endearing. Great thing to do after a first date." Crowley was stumbling over his words and his feet in his eagerness to get away from the attention, frightfully embarrassed, and Aziraphale, aching and sore and exhausted, felt like he was going to cry. 

Crowley was so beautiful. So incredibly beautiful. It had been, Aziraphale realized, the first time he'd seen his eyes uncovered, and they were gorgeous. Big amber eyes that made him seem much younger, despite the lines in his face. And they were... there had been something about them. They had seemed almost like cat's eyes. Strange and exquisite. And how had he ever thought of that snake tattoo as anything but the most tempting, alluring thing in all creation?

Completely out of his league. And, he was suddenly convinced, the only person he would ever want. He couldn't be in love at last, not after an unsatisfying history of a few tentative dates that never got anywhere, he couldn't have fallen so fast in only a couple of days. But his, this rush of longing and tenderness and, for the first time, lust--he didn't know what name to put on it except that he was painfully, pathetically, embarrassingly in love.

A crush. He was inexperienced and Crowley had been deliberately flirting with him and of course he had developed a sharp crush. It just felt like love.

Aziraphale stood over the stove, eyes closed, listening to it sizzle. It was going to burn onto the bottom of Crowley's expensive cookware. He should do something. He should...

He should enjoy the days he had remaining and take every chance he could. Crowley had volunteered to do this. He was having fun. He could say no at any time if Aziraphale pushed too hard. Aziraphale could maybe kiss him again. He could maybe... He'd read a lot of books. _Kissing lessons._ After all, Crowley could say no. And if he didn't...

The thought was terrifying but, oh, Aziraphale wanted it so very much. Perhaps it was time to be brave.

And turn the bacon over.

* * *

Crowley was in black, glasses in place, when he slouched back into the kitchen. Aziraphale screwed himself up to flirt, but Crowley was quiet and barely smiled his thanks, going to make coffee and tea and sitting down with them. They ate in silence, until Crowley suddenly said, "Schmid-Fraccaro syndrome."

"What?"

"Cat eye syndrome. Irises didn't close up properly before I was born. It's a genetic thing." Crowley bit his lip. "I'm lucky really, my symptoms aren't that severe, and growth hormones helped. Had a cleft palate when I was born. Hips aren't great but they do, especially if I keep fit. I've got an extra kidney, which is pretty rare."

"Well, that might come in handy, considering how much you drink," Aziraphale said, feeling helpless.

Crowley relaxed and smirked a little. "Speak for yourself. Anyway, mostly people don't notice, only the eyes are a bit hard to miss. Sorry to make you look without warning. Forgot to put on my glasses. Have trouble with too much light anyway, all that extra pupil."

Aziraphale wanted to say: your eyes are beautiful. Strange and lovely, like all of you. I want to look into them and then kiss your eyelids and your mouth. But despite his resolution to flirt more, it seemed wrong. That wouldn't be flirtation. That would be far too much, far too revealing. "Thank you for telling me."

"No worries." Crowley shrugged and went back to eating.

Right. Aziraphale took a deep breath. "Crowley, after we eat, how would you feel... would you... My back is _very_ painful," he said plaintively. "it helped so much when you were massaging me. Would you mind rubbing me down again?"

Crowley stared at him for a long, long moment, and then said, "Get my hands on you again? Of course I bloody will."

Of course it was just a game and practice. Despite himself, Aziraphale felt his mouth twitch up, pleased and little smug. _Kissing lessons_ , he thought again, and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Australian food in text this time, sorry! But as there were scenes in Adelaide, have a link to a [pie floater recipe.](https://www.wandercooks.com/south-aussie-pie-floater/)
> 
> I've never actually been brave enough to try one.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos make my day. Thank you for reading <3


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